


The Marvelous Misadventures of Peter Parker and Harley Keener

by AuroraLights (CrownPrincessMoon), CrownPrincessMoon



Series: Misadventures-verse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crushes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Harley Keener is a Good Bro, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Tony Stark, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Harley Keener, Slow Burn, Teen Romance, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownPrincessMoon/pseuds/AuroraLights, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownPrincessMoon/pseuds/CrownPrincessMoon
Summary: "You're an absolute menace," Tony says. "I hope you know that.""But I'm your menace, right?" Harley's smile is pure, concentrated evil, and damn it if Tony can't feel himself starting to smile back because he's weak like that, and this isnotthe best way to start an important conversation and potential grounding.Or:The story of how Harley and Peter, disaster duo, learn to navigate the bewildering and hair-raising waters of high school and family whilst dealing with rogue Avengers, secret identities, inconvenient crushes, and a mysterious new threat from OsCorp.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Peter Parker, Harley Keener & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harry Osborn/Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Harley Keener & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Series: Misadventures-verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003695
Comments: 40
Kudos: 222





	1. In which Harley breaks Tony’s microwave (and our story begins)

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Hey, guys!
> 
> If this looks familiar, it's because I've decided to rewrite Misadventures for NaNoWriMo. I'm leaving the first draft up for nostalgia's sake, but it won't be getting updated. Instead, it'll be this work.
> 
> I'm so excited because this time I've actually outlined what I want to do, and there are so many plot points I can't wait to dive into. There's character development, an actual storyline, an avengers reconciliation, and *sighs happily*, I'm just so excited.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley, for the most part, hasn't noticed the email, too busy tinkering with something Tony has a sneaking suspicion once belonged to his microwave.
> 
> "Did you take my microwave apart?" He asks, spinning around in his chair. Because. Priorities.

Somewhere along the way, Tony made a mistake.

With Peter. To be specific. Although he guesses, the same can be applied to every decision he makes. Which is... _really_ depressing when he thinks about it, so of course, his mind is having a fucking field day. He has to make them anyway—too many lives depend on him _not_ to—but he hoped that, at some point, given enough trial and error, he would be able to predict the objectively better outcomes and spare himself the grief of being wrong. 

Maybe he could if it weren’t for those human variables—the ones Tony _always_ gets wrong; the ones with the _worst_ consequences because they’re the ones he’s making _other_ people live with. 

Peter Benjamin Parker was supposed to be one of those variables—far too young, far too impressionable, far too fragile for Tony not to break in the worst way—except for the fact that he's...not, and that’s not what happens.

No, what happens is that Tony lets Peter get close at a time when he's never felt more alone. When more than any other moment in his life Tony wholly believes that love is a weakness of the worst kind and should come with some sort of warning label because the pain he feels in the aftermath of everything _sucks_.

And Tony is fully aware that there is a _dangerously_ , fine line between playing the benevolent benefactor to a young, budding superhero—and yeah, Tony can deal with that; it's all business when it comes down to it, really, and he _excels_ at that—and actually caring about what happens to the kid.

It's that side of the line that scares him the most because already he feels something warm and soft curl in his chest whenever he sees Peter, and it's so sickeningly sweet that Tony swears he developed a cavity the first time he felt it.

Which was just. _Ugh_.

(Insert full-body shudder here.)

Tony Stark tries not to get too attached, he really does. 

...Except, Peter makes it so _easy_. 

For a human variable, Peter is _consistently_ unpredictable; he's a word problem that Tony’s been given the trick to solve.

Case in point: for someone seemingly incapable of doing any wrong, accidental or otherwise, he’s gotten pretty good at lying to Tony about, well, everything.

And “everything” is a lot: injuries of the non- and life-threatening variety, how bad the bad guys really are (and yes, Peter, serial killing wizards are definitely above your paygrade, and where were these weirdos coming from anyway? He needed to have a talk with Strange soon), the amount of schoolwork he brushed off in favor of helping a cat down from a tree, and everything else Tony needed to know for the sake of his sanity (and safety because he still didn't trust May to _not_ murder him in his sleep every time Peter stubbed his toe), but Peter refused to tell him because he was a little shit and obviously planning to come into his inheritance early by giving Tony a stress-induced heart attack.

("He kind of reminds me of you."

"Shut up, Rhodey.")

The original plan had been to keep Peter at arm’s length and out of harm’s way, but when was the last time anything went _Tony’s_ way? So here he is in his workshop at four-thirty in the morning re-watching footage of Peter’s last skirmish because the kid had been stingy with the details the last time they talked.

It's perfectly normal, okay? Any superhero sponsor/mentor/tech-guy would do the same, and in no way has he crossed that imaginary line in his head.

(On a completely _unrelated_ note, Tony is the king of self-denial.)

Stolen footage from a pawn's shop outside security camera plays in front of him, just barely catching the way Peter takes down would-be store robbers with well-timed quips and agility that can only be considered inhuman.

It's all weird and cute in a way that only Peter can pull off beating up criminals in skin-tight spandex in the middle of the day—until the point, he loses himself in some joke about ski masks and raccoons and can't turn around fast enough to avoid getting body-checked into the brick wall of the alley. The minute he’s down the man levels a solid kick to his chest and— _ow_ , Tony knew there was a reason why Peter was wincing every time he laughed. He doesn’t need to watch the rest of the footage to know that Peter eventually shook it off and took them down—Peter has been _very_ willing to share that part of the story, go figure—but he does so anyway just to watch him get up.

(Peter always gets up, he reminds himself.)

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tony massages the spot on his forehead that feels like nails are being hammered into his skull.

This kid is going to be the death of him. 

Well.

He mutes the sound on the screen and moves it aside, colors flashing out of the corner of his eye as he brings up another holographic display of what may or may not have been an illegally obtained email about one Harley James Keener to the Rose Hill County School Board. He skims it for what must have the eightieth time since he'd gotten the notification in the middle of a meeting.

That is if a certain someone doesn't get him first.

(Enter Problem Child #2.)

_...Mr. Harley Keener, despite his notable test scores, is aggressive, defiant, and utterly incapable of showing his teachers or peers respect..._

_...has on several occasions caused explosions in the chemistry lab and started small fires in shop class..._

_...dismantled the engines of several students and administrators for what he claimed to be "an investigation in select human ineptitude and primal responses"..._

_...broke several windows with prototypes of his so-called "potato gun"..._

_...after multiple attempts of disciplinary action, the school believes it is in the best interest of the students for Mr. Keener to be expelled from Rose Hill High School and transferred to the Alternative..._

Expelled.

"What the _actual_ fuck, Keener?" Tony murmurs under his breath.

"Hey, Tony?"

Speak of the devil.

The delinquent in question descends the steps into his workshop with heavy steps, his telltale drawl slipping through the frosted glass. Friday simultaneously closes the Spider-Man video screen and opens the screen door, letting him in.

Harley, for the most part, hasn't noticed the email, too busy tinkering with something Tony has a sneaking suspicion once belonged to his microwave.

"Did you take my microwave apart?" He asks, spinning around in his chair. Because. Priorities.

Harley continues as if he hadn't heard him. "Quick question: do you think it's possible to isolate the ionized particles of electricity using a high voltage transformer and then channel that energy into a potato?"

Tony stares. And blinks. Does it again. Wonders how exactly he got to this point in his life.

"Well?" Harley insists, impatient as always.

"Nuh-uh. Me first. Did you take my microwave apart?"

"No."

"Look at me." Tony orders. "Answer again."

Harley does, baby blues glinting mischievously even as he repeats himself, " _No_."

"You're an absolute menace," Tony says. "I hope you know that."

"But I'm your menace, right?" Harley's smile is pure, concentrated evil, and damn it if Tony can't feel himself starting to smile back because he's weak like that, and this is _not_ the best way to start an important conversation and potential grounding.

He adopts a more serious expression, trying his hardest to look stern and disappointed, but also open and understanding. (Parenting books _obviously_ have no idea how the human face works, but Tony decides he might as well give it a shot.)

Harley takes notice and frowns, drawing his eyebrows together in concern. "Are you–You’re not having a stroke, right?"

What?

“Because, like, if you’re stroking out, I don’t really know CPR, like I said I did. I was kind of just fucking with yo–”

"–What? No!" Tony finally sputters out. “And if I _was_ , I want to make it known that I’m _disgusted_ with the lack of concern and—honestly?—A little weirded out by the things you decide to joke about, Keener.”

"I think you should be more concerned about the order in which you took offense. Says a lot about your ego, old man." Harley picks a screwdriver off the table to push behind his ear. "What's up with your face then?"

"This is what's up." He turns in his chair slightly to pull the hologram around, key points of the email already highlighted and circled in bright red.

Harley frowns, eyes skimming, then pales considerably, his hands finally stilling on the machinery in his hands.

"Oh. That."

"What do you mean, 'Oh. That.'?" Tony stares at him. "Harley, did you know about this?"

Harley shrugs, avoiding his gaze. "Mr. Anderson may or may not have mentioned something in passing at my last disciplinary meeting."

"Wha-? And you didn't think to tell me?" Tony asks.

"I didn't think it mattered!" Harley replies, suddenly defensive. “You have other things to worry about.”

"You're being expelled from the only high school in your town, Keener. Of course, it matters." Tony swipes the screen away so he can see Harley more clearly. "And what's with all these infractions? Kid, I knew you were a delinquent in the making but this seems a little excessive. Even for you."

Harley says nothing, his hands moving over the gadget in his hands once more.

"Talk to me?" He asks, no, _pleads_ , really.

Harley rolls his eyes, exuding the kind of world-weariness that only an angsty teenager can perfect. "You're making a big deal out of nothing. I'll just apply for college this fall. Problem solved."

Tony scoffs. "You're kidding, right? You're a seventeen-year-old high school junior with a rap sheet."

Harley points the screwdriver at him. "Hey, I'm a seventeen-year-old high school junior with a rap sheet who's a fucking genius–"

"– _Language_ –"

"–And besides, you went to MIT when you were only sixteen. How is this any different?"

"Because I wasn't expelled, Keener. You were, and according to this email," he threw a thumb over his shoulder. "You gave them plenty of ammo to do it. I mean, programming the school intercom to play the 'Little Einsteins Remix' at all times of the school day. Really?"

"That was pure, comedic gold. I was being funny."

"What about when you released twenty frogs from the Biology lab?"

Harley sniffs. "I was doing my part as a PETA ambassador, no more and no less."

“Half of them were already dead, but okay.” Tony raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "And the schoolwide blackout?"

"That had nothing to do with me."

" _Allegedly_ ," Tony drawls, using the same word in Harley’s disciplinary file. "But I distinctly remember you needling me about circuits and wiring that week. Something about wanting to test a new invention that needed a sufficient power source.”

"Oh?" Harley's leaning back on the table now, aiming for nonchalant and almost succeeding. "I don't remember having that conversation."

"Really, because Friday does, should I have her play it back or–?"

"No, no, no!" Harley exclaims, eyes wide, shooting back up. "Fine. Yes, I admit it. I have been more...difficult lately." He looks pained to admit it.

Tony snorts. "That's one word for it."

"But what kind of teenager doesn't act out every once in a while? I'm only fulfilling the stereotypes put in place by society." Harley makes a motion as if to say, ' _You didn't think of that, did you?_ '

"Yeah, well, society also tells us it's okay to be ourselves, but I don't go out wearing socks and sandals, do I?"

Harley looks curious, "...Do you want to?"

"What? No, ew! Don’t be gross, of course not." Tony shakes his head. "The point is: you're not leaving school. I won't allow it."

"You can't do that," Harley says but he sounds unsure.

"Funny," Tony rises from his chair and stretches his arms out above him... "It almost sounded like you were telling _me_ , the head of a multi-billion dollar company and former Avenger, what I can and can't do."

Harley rolls his eyes but leans in to Tony's touch when he swings an arm around his shoulders, leading him out of the room.

"You're being unnecessarily pushy right now. Metaphorically and literally."

"And you're being unnecessarily difficult," Tony retorts. "Why can't you be more like my intern?"

Friday closes the door behind them, lighting the way to the elevators which also opens as they approach.

"First floor, Fri," Tony says.

"Yes, Boss."

"You know I'm starting to think that this 'intern' of yours is nothing but a ploy to get me to think that I have competition," Harley says, picking up the threads of the conversation when the elevator doors open once more.

Tony follows him into the kitchen where a lukewarm pizza sits on the counter, most likely delivered by Happy an hour ago before he went on his date with May.

"What competition? There's no competition."

"Really? Because I haven't seen or met this mysterious ‘intern.’” He puts air quotes around the word. “How do I know he isn't a figment of your imagination? Or some kind of reverse psychology technique to get me to behave?"

"He's not," Tony insists, flipping the box open. "I've had him for almost a year now. _You_ just haven’t bothered to come to see me in ages. Peter's a real boy just like you."

Harley snorts. "Then why haven't I seen him yet?"

"He's on a school trip for the weekend. When he gets back tomorrow, I'll introduce you."

"Yippee." Harley rolls his eyes, and when Tony glares, he adopts an innocent expression. "What?"

"Be nice, Harley."

"When am I not nice?"

"When you're being an ass, coincidentally. The two correspond worryingly well. Peter's a good kid. He doesn't need your…” Tony searches for the right word to encompass all that Harley is. “–sarcasm." He finally decides. Close enough.

"Everyone needs a dose of Keener sarcasm.” Harley leans forward conspiratorially. “They just don't know it yet."

"Yeah, I'm sure.” Tony deadpans. “You know, nowhere in your criminal record did they mention the reason for this." He touches the black mark underneath Harley's eye lightly, changing the subject. "Do I want to know the story?"

Harley shrugs, picking the olives off of his pizza even though _he_ was the one to ask for them. Ingrate. "Lost a fight with a door frame. There isn't much to tell."

Tony hums. "How's your sister?"

"Good. She loves Graystone. Already made loads of friends, if her snaps are any indication."

"And your mom?" Tony broaches hesitantly.

Something flickers across Harley's expression, too fast for Tony to catch.

"Rehab. Again." His voice is too smooth, too unaffected, and Tony frowns.

Harley catches his expression and waves a hand at him. "Don't stroke out on me yet, old man, it's fine. I'm staying with my aunt and her boyfriend until she's back."

"Oh. Good." Tony clears his throat and hates himself a little more because emotions have never been his strong suit. For the briefest moment, he almost wishes Cap was here, which, weird.

"Well, until I figure out how to get you back in school," Harley smirks sheepishly, and Tony resists the urge to tousle already mused locks. "Maybe you could stay here for the week. Think your aunt would be good with that?"

"Yeah, of course." Harley nods enthusiastically.

"Great." Tony claps. "You’ll get to meet Peter."

"If he exists."

"He does."

"You know, while we’re talking about the highly improbable, maybe I'll meet Spider-Man, too." Harley shrugs.

Tony almost chokes and quickly covers it up by popping the cap on his root beer and swigging it down. "Yeah. Maybe."

Harley gives him a weird look but continues on. "So what's Patrick like?"

"Peter." Tony corrects.

"If you say so."

"I do say so. So does his birth certificate. Because he was born, you know, like a real person." Tony snarks before getting the conversation back on track. "He's a lot like you, actually; scary smart for his age, more competent than most adults I work with—the works. He’s more of a biochemist than anything else, but he could certainly give anyone in my departments a run for their money.”

"You know, that’s all well and good, but I'm failing to hear the part where he's better than me, and I thought replacements were supposed to be that," Harley interjects, expression deceptively child-like, and this time Tony really does mess with his hair.

"For starters, he isn't as much of a little shit–"

"–My _hair_ –!"

"And _second_ , neither of you are replacements for the other, ok? I want you guys to be friends. Is it too much to ask for you to be civil?"

Harley levels him with a deadpan stare and slowly raising an eyebrow that reminds him so much of himself, it's almost terrifying.

"Fine. Fake it if you have to. Just...reign it in, ok? There are a lot of people who take his emotional well-being seriously, and I will not be held accountable for your death if his scary friend and hot aunt try to dismember you."

“I, Harley Keener, promise to reign it in. Scout’s Honor.” Harley raises his hand, and Tony pushes it back down.

"Please. You've never been a scout for a single day in your life."

"Pinky promise then?" Harley holds the digit out and grins, wiggling it.

Tony rolls his eyes but acquiesces. "You're fucking weird, kid."

"You missed me." Harley's smile is wicked, and this time Tony does smile back.

(And if Tony thinks that Harley is far too much like him to successfully keep such a promise, then...Well, that conversation and freakout can be shelved for another time.)


	2. In Which Peter Wears Hello Kitty Pajamas (Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!
> 
> New chapter time!!! I haven't finalized a release schedule, but I'm thinking every other day. We'll see how it goes. For now, though, I hope you enjoy!!

The drive back from Albany to Midtown is two hours and thirty minutes of neverending monotony broken up only by Ned’s occasional snort as his head lolls onto Peter’s shoulder and Mr. Harris’ increasingly irate grumbles as he struggles to solve his crossword.

Flash, at the very least, fell silent an hour ago when he realized there was no one interested in listening to him complain about his sprain for the thousandth time. The highlight of Peter’s trip back—and possibly his entire semester, hell, maybe his _life_ —had been when Flash tried to look to _MJ_ for sympathy. Hilarious in its own right because Peter would look for comfort in a _porcupine_ before even attempting to dredge some from his best friend/ex-girlfriend.

MJ had barely spared him a glance when she shot him down with a cool and acerbic, “I _honestly_ don’t give a fuck, Eugene.”

Peter had laughed— more out of pure shock than any _real_ malicious intent—and triggered a chain of hysterics across the bus that only fueled itself as Mr. Harris struggled to keep them calm while simultaneously reprimanding MJ.

“ _Language_ , Ms. Jone–Everyone, please calm down, it’s not that funny–Michelle, really, I expect bette–”

The remainder of the drive goes off without a hitch and before long, Midtown School comes into view at the next turn. Peter nudges Ned awake, already itching to be up and about, and makes the mistake of accidentally meeting Flash’s eyes when he stands up.

Flash’s murderous glare promises at _least_ a week of relentless teasing and “accidentally” being shoved into lockers, and Peter sinks back into his seat with a sigh. Suddenly, it’s not so funny anymore.

“Hey, I think your bodyguard’s here or whatever.” MJ tosses him his duffle bag from where he stashed it in the seat behind her before shouldering her own backpack. Peter scrambles back up to peer out her window, just in time to see a steel-gray Audi pull into the school’s drop-off lane. It’s one of Tony’s less conspicuous cars which is to say, not very conspicuous at all, but at least it wasn't hot-rod red.

“He’s not actually my bodyguard, you know.” He says.

“Good thing I don’t _actually_ care, then.” MJ parrots, and Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes, although he’s fairly certain that she does.

“He’s my...person who happens to take me places occasionally and makes sure I don’t do anything too stupid.” Peter corrects, making his way down the aisle and down the bus steps. 

“So, you just gave the job description of a babysitter.” MJ expresses drily, raising an eyebrow. “I hope you’re happy because that’s totally what I’m thinking of him as of now.”

“He’s not–” Peter throws his hands up. “Ned? A little help here?”

"Yeah, MJ!" Ned agrees because he’s an awesome friend, and Peter really takes him for granted someti– "He’s May’s boyfriend, so he’s kind of like Peter’s step-not-father. Er, step-legal guardian? Step-something or other?"

Scratch that. Ned is the worst friend ever.

" _Ugh_." Peter shudders, shaking his head. "Don't say that, man. It's weird enough seeing them being all couple-ly when they’re not even official, yet.”

“Ok. Then, what are they?” Ned asks.

Good question. “May says they’re having fun. Seeing how they fit and stuff.” Whatever _that_ means.

“And Happy?”

“Absolutely smitten, according to Mr. Stark,” Peter shrugs. “But it’s also, _Mr. Stark_ , so, you know.”

"Chances are he’s either exaggerating or straight-up lying," MJ intones dryly, a slight smile curving her lips. “We know.”

"Obviously." Ned and Peter say simultaneously, and they exchange grins. Their handshake is just beginning when it's interrupted by Happy honking the car horn twice. He lasted longer than usual, though, so Peter happily counts that as a win

“I should get going. See you guys tomorrow?” Peter doesn’t quite wait for their responses before he’s skipping down a couple of steps leading into the drop-off area. He purposefully stumbles across a few, careful to maintain a clear divide between himself and his _other_ identity. Of course, Parker Luck dictates he ends up actually tripping over the last step, and Happy has to rush to steady him.

"Christ, kid," Happy admonishes, gripping his shoulders. "Are you trying to break your neck? May would kill me. And then Tony would find a way to resurrect me to do it again."

"Sorry." He grins, breathless, handing his duffle over. He turns back around to shout, "Bye, Ned! Bye, MJ!"

The former waves back an equally enthusiastic goodbye whilst the latter only flips him off, her stony facade betrayed by the subtle warmth in her eyes.

"We ain’t got all day," Happy complains, and Peter climbs into the back seat, drawing the seat belt over his chest. 

“There. Happy?” He asks and then laughs a little to himself because _Happy_ being _happy_. Heh.

“Yeah, laugh it up.” The older man deadpans, starting the engine up, “Anything to report?”

“Yeah, we beat Lakewood by like a _point_ , it was absolutely insane!” Peter leans forward, gripping the passenger headrest. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the questions they asked–”

“This is the part where I very kindly remind you that I’m not talking about _you_ , but your, _ahem_ , other half.” Happy interrupts.

Peter blinks. “Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” He sees Happy roll his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t see anything on the news, so that’s promising.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s _Albany_. I’m pretty sure even _criminals_ steer clear.” 

“And that kid’s busted up ankle?” Happy nods to where Flash is making an obnoxiously pitiful show of struggling with his crutches while Mr. Harris fusses over him and tries to juggle carrying all his bags. “Does Spider-Man have anything to do with that?”

“Nope.” He fights to keep a smile off.

“Since _that_ wasn’t suspicious at all, you wanna try again?" Happy raises an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "Maybe with words? Better yet, an actual explanation?"

Peter raises his own eyebrow back, leaning back in his seat. "Do you actually care or do you just wanna know if there's anything you can snitch back to May and Tony?" 

"You call it snitching, I call it doing my job," Happy shakes his head. "Which means keeping you and/or your secret safe. So, tell me: anything we need to worry about?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "Don't worry. Neither I nor Spider-Man had anything to do with that."

Flash had sprained his ankle being an ass, as usual.

The idiot had been showing off at the hotel pool and had the bright idea to try to push Peter into the deep end. It probably would’ve worked if Peter’s spider-sense hadn’t kicked in, moving him out of Flash’s reach before he could make it too far, and sending him slipping on a puddle of water that sent his ankle twisting too far the wrong way.

Peter feels bad, he really does, but some small vindictive part of him can’t help but find Flash’s prank backfiring in his face deeply satisfying.

"Something came up at the shelter today, so it might be a little late before May can get home,” Happy's voice pulls him out of his head. “She’ll get you from Tony’s around eight.”

Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Happy being privy to information like that now that he's dating his aunt. Almost as much as he’ll never get used to May trusting Tony enough to watch him, in spite of the whole Spider-Man reveal. "You hungry?” Happy continues. “We could pass by that burger joint before I drop you off."

"While a burger does sound great," Peter grins, feeling his stomach rumble on cue. "I'd rather I get something to eat at the mansion.” He leans forward in excitement, “See, there's this upgrade to the web-shooters that I want to work on, and at first, I didn't know how I was going to implement a triple-barrel, but then we visited this applied microengineering museum, and I realized that with the right schematics I could-"

"Take a breath, kid." Happy interrupts, eyes fond even as he rolls them. "No need to send yourself into cardiac arrest.”

Peter flushes red to the tips of his ears. "Yeah, sorry. It was just, uh, really cool."

Tony’s mansion stands secluded on 5th Avenue, several miles apart from the other houses on the street, and lined by a steel fence that opens up at Happy’s fingerprint and eyeball recognition. 

With its sharp-angles and slate-gray exterior, Tony’s three-story smart house is accented with glass, steel, and decorative wooden beams. Friday’s installed on the premises, as well as a fully-functioning lab, garage, and MedBay in the lower level that Tony reserves for emergencies. (There are also several empty bedrooms on the third floor that Peter pretends not to know add up to the number of the original Avengers, but they don’t talk about that.)

After the Battle of New York, Peter took every chance he got to go into Manhattan with Ben on his days-off, desperate to catch a glimpse of the sterling _A_ that marked the home of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. It was the coolest building in the world to an excitable eight-year-old, barring Empire State, of course. Peter couldn’t get enough of it. The mere thought of just existing in the same state as his idols—Iron Man, Captain America, and did he mention, _Iron Man_ —was enough to trigger more than one asthma attack as a kid.

It is—it _was_ —a monument to everything good in the world.

...And then Germany happened, and Tony sold the Tower. To get rid of the bad memories, Pepper had explained quietly, but sometimes…sometimes Peter sees Tony staring at Cap’s shield when he thinks Peter isn’t looking, running his fingers over prototype Widow Bites, and even tinkering with what looked like a high-tech compound bow, and Peter wonders if Tony sold the Tower to get rid of all the good memories, too. (He knows from experience that the memories that made you smile hurt more than the ones you wished you could forget.)

And although Tony _technically_ moved into the Compound, and Peter _technically_ has a room there larger than the apartment suite he shares with May, he still prefers the mansion on 5th Avenue.

It's closer, for one, to Midtown, and Queens, and May. Tony isn’t there very often, but Peter likes to think that when he is he's more at peace there than at the Compound, surrounded by reminders of people he used to consider family. He never seems to mind when Peter lets himself in to do his homework, improve his webbing in the lab, or wander the halls of the third floor when he’s bored, wondering about all the locked doors. 

He has a room there, too. On the first floor across the same hall from Tony’s. (And no, that doesn't make Peter feel ridiculously happy. It's just a room. Obviously.)

Happy drops him off at the door and pulls out of the driveway to run some errands—something about having to buy a new microwave(?)—leaving Peter to re-shoulder his duffle and let himself in.

"Good evening, Mr. Parker,” Friday greets as the door closes behind him. “How was your trip? Did you win?”

"It was...eventful.” Peter settles on with a smile. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Where’s Mr. Star?"

"Boss is currently taking a call in his office with Secretary Ross."

"Oh." Peter blinks, shifting his feet. "Should I wait or...?"

"Boss has previously informed me that anyone is welcome to interrupt his conversations with the secretary. In fact, he encourages it." Friday sounds simultaneously disapproving and amused.

"I mean, as long as he doesn’t mind." Peter takes the stairs two steps at a time to the second floor, skidding down the hall to a stop in front of Tony's office—a room with glass for walls and floor-length windows with several computers on a curved, wooden desk.

Tony’s inside, pacing back and forth like a cat while he tosses a rubber ball between his hands. He has a StarkPhone headset in his ear, nodding along to whatever Secretary Ross is saying, even as he rolls his eyes and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

"Yeah, no, I hear you loud and clear, Ross...Yes, I’m taking notes...I totally am!... Yeah, and how would you know, huh?"

Peter knocks on the glass to alert his presence, and Tony jumps a little before honing in on him. He pantomimes a heart attack before straightening up with a wink, his eyes glinting mischievously behind red-tinted glasses.

"What, I'm still listening. You were talking about that one thing, right? That thing with Clause 65?...What do you mean we stopped talking about that an hour ago?!"

Peter laughs a little and waves, used to Tony's antics.

Tony waves back, points at his phone, then mouths the words, "Talk in a minute."

Peter gives him a thumbs-up and makes his way back down the stairs, turning down the first hall where his room resides.

He nudges the door open with his hip, throwing his duffle down on his unmade bed and kicking off his shoes before quickly changing into a pair of Hello Kitty pajama pants (they're super comfortable—sue him) and an SI t-shirt and leaving for the kitchen.

He slides his way past the living room and dining room, fully intent on rummaging through Tony’s usually well-stocked fridge (thank you, Pepper and Happy) and then getting started on his upgrades so he can show Tony, and—

–and–

—There's a boy in the kitchen.

Sitting at the island countertop with something that looks worryingly similar to a homemade detonator in his hands. Every once in a while he stops to make a note on the blueprint paper next to him, but for the most part, he remains focused on the tech in his hand. 

"Um," Peter says involuntarily, and the boy looks up, freezing Peter in the kitchen entryway and causing him to feel very much like an intruder even though _he's_ the one with a bedroom down the hall.

He takes in messy, dark blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and a crooked grin that straddles the line between playful and mocking as it grows across his face. There's a dark bruise fading underneath his right eye.

"Huh. Who would've guessed it? You're real." He mutters, mostly to himself, and Peter blinks at the southern drawl lining his words.

"Um," Peter repeats because the English language has finally decided to take its revenge on him for constantly butchering it and ditch him today.

"I could've sworn the old man was making you up." He shrugs then, turning back to his blueprints like he hasn't just managed to confuse the hell out of Peter with a couple of sentences.

"I'm sorry, b-but who are you?" Peter finally manages to stutter out.

"I'm Tony's son, obviously." There's an eye-roll in that sentence that Peter decidedly does _not_ appreciate, but that problem takes a backseat to the one currently sitting in front of him.

Peter laughs awkwardly, “Um. No, you’re not.”

“Sure, I am.” The boy marks something on the blueprint. "It’s what it says on my birth certificate."

Something cold crawls down his spine, “What?”

“Why are you so certain I’m not Tony’s son?” He looks up again, blue eyes challenging, and his lips curl into something decidedly _not_ nice. “Does Dad tell you everything?”

...And there are so many things Peter can say to that. Ranging from the fact that the boy’s blonde hair and blue eyes are recessive traits and therefore do not make sense if Tony was his father to the fact that Mr. Stark has never _once_ mentioned him before in the history that Peter has known him.

He settles on the obvious.

"Mr. Stark doesn't have kids."

"You know how Dad is. Always keeping secrets." The boy’s already lost interest in Peter again, turning back to his blueprints and muttering something under his breath about velocity, and Peter...Peter is trying to breathe past the painful squeeze in his chest at the thought of this random kid getting to call Tony 'Dad' when Peter can barely get the inventor’s first name past his lips on a good day.

“I–You’re–How–?” He’s so _confused_.

“Take your time, kid. As long as you need.” The boy mutters under his breath.

Peter finally finds his voice, annoyance briefly quelling his nerves. “Don’t call me that. And Mr. Stark's never mentioned you before."

"That’s funny, 'cause he's mentioned you.” He points his pencil at him. “He calls you his _protégé_ —big word, right?—but he must have forgotten about me, huh?"

"I..." Peter feels horribly wrong-footed, like stepping onto the next step in a staircase and finding empty air instead. He swallows and feels like he's forcing bees down his throat, stingers, and all.

"I am loving the outfit by the way. I wish I had the confidence to rock Hello Kitty the way you do." And the boy’s smile is definitely mocking now, more unkind than not.

He winks and turns back to his detonator, leaving Peter dumbstruck and a little slighted that Tony–

No, he’s lying–

But if he isn’t–?

No, he _has_ to be lying–

But if he _isn’t_? If Tony had a kid he didn’t tell Peter about? If the reason this _boy_ is here is that Tony’s finally gotten tired of Peter’s stupid jokes and pathetic hero worship and– _and_ –

Peter feels his face warm beet red, and he can't even begin to formulate a reply because his thoughts are turning into intangible wisps of nothing as his anxiety crawls and _creeps_ –

Tony finally— _relievingly_ —walks in, his call with the secretary apparently over. He sets down several bags on the counter, the smell of Chinese food wafting through the kitchen.

"Peter, there you are." He ruffles his hair and drops an arm around his shoulder. "I see you've met our resident menace."

"Kinda." Peter manages to choke. The boy shrugs.

"Well, to make it official," Tony nudges him forward on his way to the coffee machine. "Peter Benjamin Parker meet Harley James Keener."

"Pleasure," Peter says automatically, his proper upbringing kicking in as he raises a hand. Harley eyes him suspiciously before tucking his pencil behind his ear.

He grasps Peter’s hand, "Likewise."

"Keener," Peter repeats, pulling back and looking back at Tony. "So, he isn't your son?"

"My son?" Tony looks both amused and bewildered. "Who gave you that awful idea? Was it this little demon?"

"Please." Harley snorts, flipping his hair back. "You should be so lucky as to be biologically related to me."

Tony rolls his eyes, leaning forward on the counter. "Don't believe anything he says, Peter. He's a spawn of Satan. Little munchkin broke my microwave the first day he got here."

"Well, you broke into my garage the first time you came to my house," The teen crosses his arms. "Consider this evening out the scoreboard."

Tony makes a face. "'Breaking in' is such an ugly way to put it." 

"And how would you phrase it?" Harley inquired dryly.

"Uh, seeking shelter from a homicidal maniac in the first safe haven that happened upon me by divine intervention?"

“I’m sorry, but I’m not hearing, ‘I crashed through your garage and left behind thousand-dollars worth of property damage.’”

“Which I paid for–”

“–but if that’s what you want to call ‘breaking in and entering.’”

“Hey, considering that I had just been the target of a _missile attack_ , you think you could give me a break–?” 

The rest of Tony's words are drowned out by the buzzing in Peter's ears, steadily growing louder as he struggles to keep his anxiety in check.

Breathe. He needs to breathe.

—Except it's getting a lot harder to do that, and who the _hell_ is this kid?

"—ight, Peter?" Tony asks suddenly, startling him, and he blinks a couple of times to recalibrate himself.

"I...What?" He asks.

"You're not very good at listening, either, huh?" Harley notes, head tilted to the side as he examines Peter with almost clinical interest. "I'm curious. How do you function in human society?"

" _Harley,_ " Tony's voice is chiding. "Lay off a little. He hasn't built a tolerance for you yet."

Harley scoffs and looks away. "Said like I'm a disease."

"An infectious one." Tony corrects.

Harley rolls his eyes but seems to understand despite Peter’s initial thoughts of him being a complete and utter ass. He leans back in his chair with a teasing grin and wandering eyes, tapping out a rhythm with his pencil and raking a hand through his hair.

“Sorry, sorry. I just get carried away sometimes. Especially when I’m nervous.” 

_Nervous?_ Peter wants to laugh.

Harley looks nothing of the sort—all blonde hair, blue-eyed perfection with a sharp, sugar-sweet smile that confuses as much as it annoys. 

No, it’s Peter who’s nervous and anxious and angry and about five seconds away from a panic attack. Nervousness is _nothing_ compared to the angry thoughts threatening to drown him in self-doubt and resentment.

“Anyway,” Mr. Stark interrupts before Harley or Peter can say anything—although Peter doubts he _can_ say anything. “Harley’s staying for the week while I work something out for him back home in Tennessee. Maybe the two of you can work together in one of the workstations upstairs? Cook up something cool but. You know. Not radioactive."

"But things are more fun when they glow green." Harley pouts, and Peter has to stifle a laugh that’s entirely too shaky to be normal.

"That's...not actually true," Peter says, and what do you know, he is still capable of human interaction. “The only reason radioactive material glows green is that alpha and/or beta particles strike molecules of a phosphor, typically zinc sulfide, which then emits green wavelengths. It doesn’t happen all the time."

Harley looks vaguely impressed which Peter couldn't care less about, his attention already turning towards Tony who nods his approval.

"Told you he was smart." His mentor leans back against the fridge, cradling his cup and inhaling the coffee inside.

Peter feels his face glow with pride.

Harley shrugs, looking back down. "Maybe, but which one of us is wearing Hello Kitty pajamas?"

Tony blinks a couple of times and then looks at Peter appraisingly.

Peter decides he doesn’t like Harley James Keener, all that much.

“You know what, why don’t we watch a movie tonight, huh?” Tony downs the rest of his drink and sets his mug down on the granite countertop. “You guys can get to know each other better. Harley, I got that orange chicken you like.”

 _No_ , Peter thinks desperately. _That’s our thing_.

Thankfully, Harley is already shaking his head, “Thanks, Tony, but I’ve gotta get some sleep. Jet lag and all, you understand.” He rises from his seat and rolls up his paper. “Put mine in the fridge?”

“No promises,” Tony smirks, even as he sets one of the boxes aside.

“It was nice meeting you, Peter Benjamin Parker.” Harley's smile is half-formed, still mocking, somehow, and Peter _really_ does not like this guy.

He smiles tightly, “You too.” 

"Don't let the bed bugs bite," Mr. Stark croons, and Harley rolls his eyes, lips twitching into something that might’ve been genuine, before disappearing down the hallway opposite Peter and Tony’s.

“Fri, do you mind playing _The Empire Strikes Back_ where Peter and I last left off?”

“On it, boss.”

The TV switches on as they settle around the coffee table in the living room, Mr. Stark kicking up his socked feet in the armchair across from him and Peter crossing his own legs underneath him on the couch.

“So, kid,” Mr. Stark nudges him with his foot. “How was your meet? You guys beat that school—um, what was it, Riverforest?”

“Lakewood,” He corrects and pokes at his fried rice. “Yeah, it was great.” 

“Yeah? That’s good, that’s good.” Tony leans forward a little, lowering his voice. “And how are your ribs? You know the ones you didn't tell me about?”

Peter’s head jerks up in surprise, and Tony stares at him knowingly, if not a little disappointed. 

“You saw that, huh?” He laughs sheepishly.

“Peter, you promised–”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Peter shrinks underneath the guilt. “I’m getting better, I promise. It just didn’t seem–”

“Are you–?” Tony rubs his face. “Did they heal alright, at least? Any complications?”

“Yeah, I’m totally good now,” Peter says, and it’s the truth. It is. Ok, the bruises are still there, but at least his ribs don’t feel too big for his chest now.

Tony doesn’t look like he believes him, and yeah, Peter deserves that.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Tony nods to the hall where Harley disappeared down. “When we’re less likely to be overheard, ok?”

Peter nods, glumly. This would be his fifth lecture this _month_.

“So,” Tony spoons a bite, leaning back once more. “What’d you think of Harley?”

“He’s...” _Arrogant_ , _cocky_ , _mean_ , _ruining my life by existing_. “Nice.” He takes a big bite of rice and broccoli and hopes it’s enough to cover the fib.

He must have not done a good job, though, because Mr. Stark suddenly ducks his head to peer beneath Peter's fringe, his face going through a million different microexpressions before his eyes go soft and concerned around the edges.

"You okay, kid?"

"What? Yeah. I'm great." Peter forces a smile that tastes like plastic, and Tony raises an eyebrow in response.

"You know you can talk to me, Pete."

Peter hesitates. "...Of course, I do."

Except it doesn’t go both ways, does it? Not about Harley, apparently, Peter realizes with a sickly feeling. 

Tony sighs and runs a hand through his hair, setting his food down. "Harley's a bit much, I'll admit, but he's a good kid. He just takes some getting used to. Hey, if it makes you feel better, it's not like you'll be seeing him again anytime soon after this week."

Peter's smile goes a little more genuine at the reminder. Right. Harley's from a completely different state, and therefore, not any real competition. Not that he thought he was, to begin with, or anything.

"Yeah, you're right." He gives a forced chuckle. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to school with him."

"Yeah, that would be...heh...That would be crazy." Tony's gaze goes far away, gears turning behind his eyes, and Peter waves a hand in front of him. "Huh."

"Are you okay, Mr. Stark?" He asks.

"Wha–? Yeah, I’m fine.” Mr. Stark shakes his head. “Sorry, just thinking about something."

"What did Secretary Ross want?" Peter asks, changing the subject.

"Nothing he's gonna get," Tony deflects with a tired smile. “And nothing you should be worrying about. May’s gonna be by in a little bit, so enjoy this?”

“Fine.” Peter sighs, pretending to feel put out, even as he’s stung by the lack of trust. He buries the hurt deep down until he can barely feel it, losing himself in space battles and Lando Calrissian’s smile until the screen begins to blur. 

Before his eyes shut completely, he thinks he hears Mr. Stark murmur: “For the record, kid—and you didn’t hear this from me—I think you look pretty good in Hello Kitty pajamas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna start, like, writing random MCU rants down here in the notes. It might be fun. I just...heh, heh...don't have anything to rant about yet.
> 
> It'll come to me. XD.


	3. In which Harley conquers Midtown in a day (and dethrones Flash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aw. You think you have a choice." The pillow underneath his head suddenly yanked away. "Now wake up before I have Friday turn the fire sprinklers on."
> 
> "Argh!" Harley rolls across his bed until he falls in a tangle of covers and bed sheets on the floor. This feels appropriate, he thinks. The ceiling stares back at him until Tony comes into his field of view, lips twitching.
> 
> "Having fun down there?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Chapter? Consistency? I'm really out here thriving, guys.
> 
> In all seriousness, I hope you all enjoy! Since this chapter is super long, I don't think I'm gonna post until like Friday, but we'll see. After that, it's back to every other day. Fingers crossed.
> 
> ATTN: I was inspired in some places by _Problem/Solution: Keener Edition_ by enzhe and _Tony Stark Finds Himself a Family (That Doesn't Suck)_ by orbingarrow.  
> Check them out!

It’s hard, at first, falling asleep in the mansion. 

Don’t get him wrong, the guest room is great—Tony’s gone out of his way to make it an exact replica of Harley’s old room back in Malibu—but it just feels...off. Maybe it’s the measly one hour time difference. Maybe it’s the fact that New York City truly _is_ the city that never sleeps—which is all well and good until Harley wants to actually _sleep_ , and then Rose Hill’s rural silence suddenly sounds a whole lot better. 

Hell, maybe it’s just Harley. 

Whatever the case may be, by the time he actually _manages_ to get some shut-eye, he’s confronted by a new host of problems: nightmares. So, you know, good times all around. 

It’s not all bad, though.

Harley's one-week stay with Tony (or, as he likes to call it, the _Tony Stark Experience: New York Edition_ , not to be confused with the _Malibu Edition_ ) is pretty uneventful for the most part, which, in itself, is why Harley loves it so much.

It goes like this:

 **9:00 AM** —The sun begins to break through his curtains, bright and jarring, and it’s around this time that Harley finally manages to rouse himself awake. (Said as if there aren't so many times he can hit the snooze before it’s disabled by Friday, the traitor.) He makes his way downstairs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, around the same time Tony’s coming out of his lab from the elevator. Harley's usually pretty good at determining whether or not Tony spent the night there or just decided to get an early start. (It goes without saying that the former happens more worryingly often than not.)

 **9:15 AM** —Tony drinks the coffee leftover from his last trip to the kitchen (which, _gross_ , by the way—that thing could be anywhere from an hour to eight hours old), and Harley eats whatever he finds in the fridge, usually, the donuts Happy’s left behind before going off to run Head-of-Security errands and the like. 

("I'm going to have a talk with Happy soon," Tony eyes the extravagantly dressed donut in Harley's hand with disgust. "That can _not_ be healthy."

"I doubt the dying remains of a cheeseburger with day-old coffee is any better." He takes a bigger bite to prove a point.

"Blasphemy.")

 **10:00 AM** — Harley's hair is still damp from his shower when they retire into the garage after breakfast. There, Tony alternates between drawing up blueprints for Iron Man upgrades and working on prototype leg braces. Harley spends his time far more productively, admiring the absolutely gorgeous engines of Tony's numerous cars and begging to take one out for a spin. The results are usually disappointing, but Harley likes to think he's wearing him down.

("No." Tony's not even looking at him this time.

_"I haven't even asked yet!"_

"I can feel you looking at her—Stop it."

"C'mon! I'll give you–" He scrambles for something, anything. "I'll give you the blueprints to my potato gun!"

"It's cute that you think I need the blueprints for anything."

"But–" Harley's about to get on his knees.

"Give it up, Keener. There's nothing you currently have that I want."

Silence.

"...What about my firstborn child?")

 **11:45 AM** — Lunch happens when Pepper arrives, usually to scold Tony for working so hard and being a bad example. And because Pepper Potts is an actual goddess in three-inch heels, she has them setting the table for lunch not fifteen minutes later.

("Pepper, my love, have I ever told you that you are the celestial body of which my world revolves?" Tony bats his eyelashes, and Pepper sighs tiredly even as her blue eyes sparkle.

“Eat your salad, Stark.” 

“Are those new earrings? They’re very nice. Did I get them for you?”

“You did not, actually. James did.” 

“Well, you know, anything Honey Bear gives you is on my behalf–”

Pepper scoffs and shares a look with Harley as if to say, “ _Can you believe this man?_ ”)

Harley’s not sure what’s going on between the two of them—not quite broken up, and yet not quite together either. He likes Pepper, though. Even if she does take a somewhat overbearing interest in whether or not he’s eating well. And sleeping well. And his entire well-being, in general. He has a feeling it’s more practical than sentimental. Tony’s an awesome host, but even Harley can admit that the inventor sucks at taking care of people other than himself, and that’s not saying much.

(Also, he’s like 86% sure that it was Pepper who gave Friday the alarm clock directive.)

 **1:00–5:00 PM** — Sometimes, Harley spends hours with Tony, and they lose themselves in the workshop, their ideas feeding off one another until they've somehow managed to prototype a robot that simply exists to tie people's laces together. Other times (read: most times), Tony is drawn into “Avengers business.” Also known as “keep-your-ass-out-of-my-office-Keener” time. When that happens, Harley finds himself aimlessly wandering the halls of the mansion. He spends time with Friday, getting to know that AI that’s taking Jarvis’ place in the ceiling, and studying the numerous pictures of Peter Parker hidden in plain sight all over the house. He wonders how he didn't notice them when he first arrived.

("How did they meet?" He asks after discovering a picture frame in the bookcase. It’s one with Tony _and_ Peter this time, the two of them standing at what looks to be a science fair of some sort.

Peter has a blue ribbon on his display, his smile wide and guileless, and Tony’s made bunny ears over his head, lips curled into a smirk.

"A year ago, Boss stumbled upon Mr. Parker’s work by accident and grew quite interested in him,” Friday replies. “He located him and offered him an internship at SI.” 

“A year, huh?” Harley mutters, swiping his finger over the frame.) 

A year ago, he was still in Rose Hill, living with his mother and video chatting with Abbie late into the night. At that point, it’d been several years since he was last able to visit Tony’s Malibu home. And yet in that time, Peter was able to leave an impression on the mechanic lasting enough to warrant Science Fair visits and bunny ears. He’d been given access to the parts of Tony’s life that Harley had thought...

Well, it doesn’t matter what he thought. What matters is that he doesn’t like it, and he doesn't like Peter Parker.

 **7:00–11:00 PM** — His evenings with Tony are usually laden with bad jokes and snarky remarks until it's time to sleep, and Harley does so more peacefully than he has in a long time, nightmares or no. (It helps not to have drunken yelling and brawls outside. Or inside.)

Overall, it's...nice. Really nice.

~~Harley doesn't want to leave.~~

***~***

For someone branded as being unpredictable and volatile, Tony sticks to a pretty strict schedule, especially where coffee is involved, and the pot Harley made about thirty minutes ago is still steaming when the inventor emerges from his lab at seven PM on the dot with sleeves rolled up and welding goggles in his hair.

"Welcome to the land of the living," Harley greets around a mouth full of pizza, and Tony simply throws something in his direction.

"What's this?" Harley asks, studying the brochure Tony’s just tossed onto the counter on his dash for the coffee machine. It's routine by this point, and if it were anyone else, Harley would have seriously considered tripping them.

Cap, maybe. He'd like that. Tony would too. Maybe.

Tony doesn't answer, just grunts and waves a hand in his general direction before inhaling the contents of his cup like his life depends on it.

Rolling his eyes, he scans the front page: _Midtown School of Science and Technology_ , it reads.

"Midtown?" Harley asks when Tony seems more awake.

"A high school." Tony elaborates.

"Well, no shit. Why'd you give it to me?"

“Why so suspicious?” Tony raises an eyebrow. “Look through, and tell me what you think. It's a good school—one of the best in the nation. The kids there are as smart as you. Maybe even smarter.

"Doubtful." But Harley's attention has peaked. He flips through the pages, reading the programs offered, and accolades given to their alumni. He lingers on the page that focuses on the Robotics Club.

"You like it?" Tony asks.

He shrugs, turning another page. "Yeah, I guess."

"Good. Cause you're going tomorrow."

Harley nearly does a spit take of his pizza. He succeeds in choking instead, "I'm sorry.” He coughs and beats his chest. “I don't think I heard you. Run that by me again?"

Tony rolls his eyes but tosses a water bottle in his direction. "Drama queen. I'm sending you to Midtown, kid."

"Wha—? Why?!"

"Because it'll be a good experience. Healthy and enriching and all that." Tony waves his hands around as if to encompass it all.

Harley levels him an unimpressed look over his water bottle.

"Fine. I had a talk with the district superintendent of the bumfuck-of-nowhere, Tennessee, and lucky for you, she’s of the old-fashion belief that all kids deserve a chance to succeed, no matter their issues.” Tony hesitates briefly before continuing. “Unlucky for you, your principal has her damn near convinced you're a junior agent of Hydra who kills puppies in his free time."

Harley winces because _yikes_. "That bad?"

"Worse." Tony deadpans. "So I made a deal with her: go one full day in any high school as a good, little student and you're back in Rose Hill High."

"Really? Just like that?" Harley’s skeptical. “What’s the catch?

“No catch.” Tony tries to look innocent but fails miserably. "Just like that."

He turns the brochure back over, trying to place the yellow and blue atom on the front that looks so familiar. It suddenly clicks: a sweatshirt found on top of the dryer.

He sits up. "Wait—isn't this Peter's school?"

"Yeah.” Tony's eyes shift guiltily to the left. “So what?"

“So, what? I don’t _want_ to go to Peter’s school. He hates me.” He slides the brochure back across the counter with a roll of his eyes.

“Peter?” Tony asks incredulously. “Peter is incapable of feeling or conveying any negative emotion, whatsoever. Therefore, he doesn't hate you. Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk." He winks, and Harley resists the urge to chuck something at him.

"We haven't seen him all week." Harley points out.

Tony shrugs. "He has school."

"Happy said he usually makes time to visit every day."

"Happy's a liar."

"And yet you're the one I don't believe," Harley smirks.

Tony sighs dramatically, setting his mug down. "Fine, he isn't...overly fond of you, but you can hardly blame him. He's a delicate flower, and you have the personality of a steamboat."

"That is, strangely, not the weirdest thing I've been compared to." Harley turns his attention back to his pizza.

"I'll bet," Tony says dryly. "Give him some time. He'll come around."

 _What if I don't want him to?_ Harley doesn't ask. _What if I want us to stay like this?_

"We haven't talked about that night, have we?" Tony is trying too hard to be casual now, remaining slouched against the counters and tapping his fingernails against the mug he’s picked up again.

"Do we have to?" Harley very nearly whines. He feels like a child being scolded for not sharing his toys.

"Yes, unfortunately,” Tony doesn’t look too thrilled with the conversation either. “The snide remarks? The backhanded compliments? You’re better than that.”

“Am I?” He picks at the olives and places them in a small pile on his plate. "I thought we'd established I was a little shit."

"Yeah, but you were kind of out of line there." Tony's eyes narrow in concern, and Harley notices for the first time the dark circles underneath them."You doing okay?"

Harley feels a little bad for lying but not enough to stop himself. "Fine. I just...you know...was nervous. You know how I get when I'm nervous. My brain-to-mouth filter short-circuits, and I can't stop."

Tony grimaces."So, this is you _with_ the filter? Yikes, kid."

"People in glass houses." Harley reminds him.

"I'm a billionaire—I can afford not to have a filter. And a glass house. And besides, that's what Pepper and Rhodey are for."

"Damage control?" Harley feigns innocence, and Tony steals the half-eaten pizza off his plate in retaliation.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, I have a rule about feeding smartasses."

Harley rolls his eyes and grabs another slice from the box while Tony settles back on the counter. The atmosphere is a little less charged, more relaxed than before.

“Hey, you know I don’t usually endorse this kumbaya hand-holding shit, but I really think you and Peter would get along great if you two just gave each other a chance.” Tony shrugs. “Who knows: the two of you could be the next Tony and Rhodes.”

 _Which one of us are you?_ Harley internally cringes away from the thought. _God, what’s Parker doing to him?_

“I thought Rhodey couldn’t stand you?” He asks aloud.

“He loves me,” Tony says without missing a beat. “So? Promise to try?”

“Ughhhh.”

“Harley.”

“Fine.” Harley agrees reluctantly. "I'll try my best."

"Thank you." Tony sounds more sincere than Harley’s heard him in a while, and he performs a quick double-take.

The mechanic looks tired.

Unfortunately for Tony, Harley keeping his ass out of the office doesn't entail not listening in from his room on his modified StarkPad. Today's conversation with the Secretary had dissolved into a shouting match.

"What did Ross want this time?" He asks, curious.

"Secretary Ross. Show some respect, kid."

"Do you?"

"Touché." Tony snorts and shakes his head. "It's nothing that concerns you."

"Then what's the harm in me knowing?"

Tony scoffs and raises an eyebrow. "None, really, but I can't be sharing government secrets with expelled high school delinquents, now can I?"

Harley points his pizza at him. "Low blow, Stark."

"Not low enough apparently. Friday caught you trying to apply to MIT."

"Really, Fri? You're spying on me now?" Harley feels extremely disgruntled—he thought they were becoming friends.

"Sorry, Mr. Keener. But I monitor all the screens in the house." Friday, at least, has the decency to sound remorseful, and Harley knows he'll have forgiven her in another hour or so.

"You know, I think that's illegal." He points out, still a little peeved.

"Oh, Is it?" Tony props his chin on his fist. "Show me where I should give a shit."

"What if I was watching porn?" Harley challenges with a smirk. "Would you tell Mr. Stark then?"

"Don't answer that, Friday. He's trying to change the subject."

"Pot meet kettle." Harley snips, taking the opportunity to redirect the conversation. "So, what did Secretary Ross want? He's been bothering you all week. Does he usually breathe down your neck like this?"

"No, he prefers to keep his distance because I am, and I quote, capable of driving Gandhi to commit murder."

"And so modest, too." Harley rolls his eyes.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Tony stares down at the counter, a frustration clouding his face. "And to answer your other question, we're having some slight... _disagreements_ about the accords. He wants something he can't have in exchange for some changes."

Harley leans forward. _Interesting_. "Like what?"

Tony frowns and shakes his head. "Classified."

"I didn't care anyway." Harley tries and probably fails to look unaffected if the mechanic's snort is anything to go by.

"Sure, you didn't." Tony hops down from the counter and nods over at the door. "C'mon. Let's go set something on fire so Dum-E will have something to do for the night."

It's Tony's way of apologizing and making up to him for a number of things (making him go to school, not hanging out with him earlier, etc.), and Harley accepts the olive branch with open arms.

"Ok." Harley grins, jumping up.

~~He really, really doesn't want to leave.~~

***~***

Harley James Keener is not a morning person, and he’s painfully reminded of that when his alarm clock starts to blare at seven-fifteen the next day, and it won’t shut up.

“ _No_.” He groans, cracking an eye open. His curtains have been parted automatically, light streaming through the windows and pooling into his room, casting everything in a soft, golden glow.

Harley hates it.

“Good morning, Mr. Keener,” Friday greets from the ceiling. “How did you sleep last night?”

“Ugh.” He warbles out in reply before immediately burying himself underneath his covers in an attempt to hibernate. He doesn't get too far before he hears his door swing open.

"Rise and shine, kid!" Tony's voice is disgustingly chipper, and Harley only groans in response. He hates this so much.

"I changed my mind. I want to be a high school delinquent." He tries to curl into himself more. “School is for losers.”

"Aw. You think you have a choice." The pillow underneath his head suddenly yanked away. "Now wake up before I have Friday turn the fire sprinklers on."

"Argh!" Harley rolls across his bed until he falls in a tangle of covers and bed sheets on the floor. _This feels appropriate_ , he thinks. The ceiling stares back at him until Tony comes into his field of view, lips twitching.

"Having fun down there?"

"Very much so, yes." He replies snarkily, and Tony laughs.

“Get up, kid.” He nudges Harley with his foot.

“Make me,” He mutters, mutinous. Seeing as how he’s already trying to tug his limbs free from their cloth prisons, though, he doubts his words have the effect he wants.

“C’mon! Up and at ‘em, and all that.” Tony gathers the blueprints that spilled off his bed when he took his fall, dumping them on his desk. “Those sprinklers are a legitimate threat, you know? I have absolutely no qualms about setting them off for this very stupid reason.”

“You’re bluffing.” He says as he stretches his arms above his shoulders, but just to make sure, "Promise not to give me hypothermia if I go take a shower?"

Tony grins wickedly, stepping back towards the door. "No promises."

Harley grimaces. "Friday?"

"I'll try my best to stop him, Mr. Keener." 

"Great." He drags himself into the bathroom.

A cool shower wakes him up further (courtesy of Friday, and, Harley suspects, Tony, by proxy), and he spends five minutes after combing through his hair until he achieves the 'artfully tousled' look he’s all but trademarked by now. Contrary to popular belief, it takes effort to look like he doesn’t care.

After brushing his teeth, he spits into the sink and leans closer to the mirror. The bruise underneath his right eye has faded to barely a mark, and he feels his shoulders relax a little. Harley touches it gently, and for a brief moment, he can feel the crack of a fist against his cheekbone. He jerks his hand away and scowls at his reflection.

 _God_ , he’s being so stupid.

 _It could have been worse_ , he rationalizes. Tony could have been more suspicious, could have pried more, could have asked questions that Harley would rather not answer, but he didn’t, and Harley’s never been happier about the mechanic’s reluctance to get overly involved in his life. 

Another day, and it would be cleared up. Harley could forget it even happened. File it away in the part of his brain where puts things he doesn’t like to think about. (Lucky bastard didn’t have to wait that long to forget—when he was drunk his memory became like a goldfish’s. So very easy to forget.)

He pulls on a pair of torn, dark jeans and a clean, white t-shirt from his duffle bag before grabbing a dark brown leather jacket off the back of his chair. As he throws it on his nose fills with the familiar smell of rose perfume, pine needles, and something almost antiseptic in nature.

(“He gave it to me after our first date.” His mother tucked a strand of cornsilk hair behind her ear and smiled awkwardly. The bags underneath her eyes were darker than usual which meant that she’d been drinking the night before.

"That’s sweet, Mom, but I really don't want anything that belonged to him." Harley ground out. It took effort not to lash out, but it wasn’t her fault. Harley couldn’t bring himself to hate her even as he threw the bottles out the next morning.

Pale blue met his own as she tugged his chin towards her. "He didn’t leave much, but you deserve this. Some pieces of him to claim. It’s your choice, darling."

In the end, he took it anyway.)

Harley shakes the memory off as he leaves his room. He can’t–He _won’t_ think about her now. 

He nearly trips and breaks his neck attempting to pull on his boots and go down the platform flooring into the living room at the same time. He survives—thankfully(?)—and makes a beeline for the kitchen and–

–Peter is there.

Sitting at the marble island with a bowl of Fruit Loops which is fitting, Harley thinks, given his soft, almost child-like features.

His eyes are puppy-dog brown and his hair is dark and curly, looking for all the world like someone had run their hands through it then just gave up in despair. In his sweater vest, blue jeans, and Converse, he looks closer to Harley’s age than he had wearing the Hello Kitty pajamas. 

If he’s surprised by Harley’s abrupt appearance he doesn’t show it, the only indication being the spoon frozen in his mouth.

He pulls it out, and silence reigns for one very weird minute.

"Um. Hi."

“Yeah, howdy,” Harley’s not confused enough to forget his basic manners. "I’m sorry, but when did you get here?”

"Um...ten minutes ago?" Peter shifts in his stool, visibly uncomfortable. "Mr. Stark said he needed to see me before I went to school."

Harley narrows his eyes. "You don't know why?"

"Um, no?" Peter frowns slightly. “Should I?”

Should he? Maybe. But if Tony hasn’t told him yet, Harley sure as hell won’t. It feels good, as stupid as it sounds, to know something that Peter doesn’t, if only for a little bit. It’s only fair. If the pictures around the mansion are any indication, there’s a bunch of things in Tony’s life that Peter knows, and Harley doesn’t.

"Do you always answer questions with another question, Parker?" He asks, trying to keep the smile off his face as he moves fully into the kitchen.

"No?" Harley raises an eyebrow, and Peter flushes, bright pink splotches making themselves known across his face. "No!"

"Right." He opens up the fridge, frowning at the distinct lack of donuts. Maybe Tony hadn’t been lying when he said he would get Happy to stop indulging him.

He sighs heavily. Great. Of course Tony decides to be a semi-responsible adult the day he needs his sugar fix the most.

"Cereal?" Peter offers when he closes the door.

"I'm good, thanks." Then remembering his promise to Tony, he adds a little less snippily, "I'm more of a donut guy myself, but Tony has taken it upon himself to regulate my sugar intake all of a sudden. Quite annoying."

"Oh, um.” Peter taps his fingers against the island’s surface, and then tugs at his earlobe, He’s fidgety, Harley notes, remembering the way he had twisted his fingers into knots when they first met. “There should be some Pop-Tarts in one of the cupboards, I think? Pepper keeps them stocked for me.”

Harley graciously decides not to point out the question thing again. "I thought Tony hated those things. Tin-foiled garbage, and all that." 

"Hence, why I had to have them stashed," Peter says, and for the first time since meeting him, Harley thinks he sees something akin to mischief glinting in Peter's puppy-brown eyes.

The dichotomy is jarring. But...interesting.

Or at least it is until Harley reads more into Peter's statement and realizes:

  1. Tony would have known about the pop tarts; the man had Friday alert him whenever yellow Gatorade was brought into the house, for goodness sakes;
  2. Pepper, albeit the sweetest woman in the world, definitely didn’t have the free time necessary to go buying breakfast pastries whenever Peter desired;



and 3) Tony most likely asked Pepper to tell Peter they were from her, so he could feign ignorance and pretend like he had nothing to do with the unexpected gift.

Suddenly, Harley doesn't want to be in the kitchen anymore. (Read: doesn’t want to be anywhere near _Peter_ anymore.)

"Where’d you say they were?" He asks, turning away. Nasty comments rise to his lips, but Harley firmly pushes them down. They're just Pop-Tarts, after all, and contrary to popular belief, he did have some control over what came out of his mouth.

"Um," the uncertainty is back in Peter's voice, clearly sensing the wall Harley’s put back up. "Top left pantry, I think?"

He’s already reaching for it. "Thanks."

The ensuing silence is awkward and tense, the clink of Peter's spoon against his bowl deafening. And Harley...Harley feels ridiculously petty for letting something as stupid as pop tarts ruin what might've been the conversation that reassured Peter he wasn't a complete ass.

He might as well have written it across his forehead in red sharpie.

The tension builds until Tony walks in with a megawatt smile and yoga pants, for some reason, seemingly oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the kitchen. Harley kind of wants to strangle him for...lots of reasons, actually. The first being not warning him about Peter.

"How was the shower? You awake now?" He asks on his way to the coffee pot, and Harley flips him off in response, taking some joy in Peter's scandalized gasp and subsequent spluttering cough.

Tony inevitably laughs, delighted by his behavior, as always. He pours himself a steaming cup and asks, "And how are my young prodigies this fine morning?"

"Barely alive," Harley drones in reply. “Thanks to you.”

"Good." Peter chirps back when the danger of choking has passed. His face transforms in Tony's presence, open and smiling and shy—in short, the exact opposite of how he looks at Harley. Quite frankly, it's disgusting. Harley doesn’t think he could live with himself if he ever exuded that kind of adulation around Tony. It’s a matter of a little something he likes to call dignity. Parker’s clearly never heard of it. 

He fights hard to keep from rolling his eyes.

Tony leans on the island in front of Peter, fingers wrapped around his mug. "Good news, kid: I'm getting you a new chauffeur."

"Really?" Peter blinks. “Why? Is Happy ok or…?”

"Peachy. Smiling more than ever, and I know I have May to thank for that,” Peter makes a face and blushes as Tony continues. “Ready for the catch? Here it is: it's Harley, it's only for one day, and he's attending Midtown with you."

Peter's mouth opens and closes like a fish suddenly punted out of water.

"Cool, right?" Harley asks dryly.

Peter smiles weakly in his direction, then looks away. "Yeah. Cool." 

“Now that that’s settled,” Tony lightly jogs around the counter and picks up a backpack that had been set on the kitchen table. “Courtesy of Ms. Potts, Keener. The finest school supplies you could need for a single day."

“You spoil me.”

“Never that.” Tony grins, handing it over. “Promise to look out for each other?”

"Promise," Peter replies immediately. He’s at the sink now, setting his dripping bowl in the dishwasher before patting his hands dry on his jeans.

“You know, I do have napkins, savage.” Tony rolls his eyes, but Harley can hear something far more fond beneath the words. It’s the same way he spoke to the other teen last Sunday, all bark with not even the faintest bite. Tony ruffles a blushing Peter’s hair, and Harley wonders if he’s aware of the way he melts around the other kid, dark brown eyes going soft and gooey in a way he rarely sees.

Something inside Harley clenches painfully, and he takes a bigger bite of his pop tart to get rid of the feeling.

Tony turns back to him, "Harley?"

"I'll try my best." He says around a mouthful of pop tart.

Tony grimaces. "That's all I can ask with you."

"And yet I still give perfection."He shoulders his backpack.

Tony rolls his eyes but tosses him a set of keys.

"Wha–? Really?!" Harley nearly chokes in his excitement. “For real?! No joke?”

"I said chauffeur, didn't I? Happy's running an errand for me and this one"—Peter turns pink again—"should never be allowed behind the driver's wheel."

There’s a story behind those words, but right now Harley’s too busy grinning.

"Bring my baby home in one piece, okay?" And then, almost like an afterthought, "Stay safe, too. Look out for each other."

"Shouldn't that be flipped?" Peter asks, eyebrow raised.

"No, the level of importance was addressed." Tony winks on his way out.

An awkward silence falls like a shroud as soon as he leaves, as if the mechanic’s presence had been the only thing keeping it at bay.

"Alrighty then," Harley rocks back once on his heels and polishes off the rest of his pop tart. "Shall we?"

***~***

Harley's not sure what he’s expecting when he pulls into the student parking lot, but Midtown certainly isn’t it.

For starters, it's nice. Way nicer than any high school has the right to be in Harley's opinion, although, he supposes, Rose Hill High doesn't set the bar very high. The kids aren’t what he expected either. They’re...normal-looking. Nothing like the future Einsteins and Curies he had imagined went there. With the occasional exception of people dressed like Peter, they aren't much different from the kids back home. 

As if on cue, a multi-rotor drone swoops overhead of the students, performing a series of back-flips and loops before landing lightly on the stairs.

Well.

There is _some_ difference. 

They’re gifted. That much is obvious—Harley saw the requirements to be accepted and they’re insane, academically-speaking, and that’s not including the yearly tuition. He sees more than a few drones hovering about the campus, and he itches to take one apart to see what makes it tick—whether its engine is thermal or electrical, wired or not, how he can make it go faste–

"I can show you to Mr. Morita's office," Peter’s voice short-circuits his thoughts, and he blinks a little bit. Parker’s at his side, having finally managed to untangle himself from his seatbelt—it’s a wonder he wasn’t strangled in the process—and he smiles awkwardly at Harley.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” He locks the doors with a _chirp_.

As they walk past the front door and down the halls, people peer at him curiously, whispers, and giggles lingering behind him, and Harley can’t help but smile a little at the attention. 

What? It feels good to be noticed.

He gets the impression that Peter feels the exact opposite, though, the tip of his ears reddening and his eyes sliding to the floor as he speeds up a bit. Harley rolls his eyes but picks up his pace. Whatever.

Inside the principal’s office, Mr. Morita eyes him warily before sliding a cream-yellow sheet of paper in front of him. “Your schedule.”

“Nice.” Harley murmurs.

“I hope to hear nothing, but good things, Mr. Keener,” Mr. Morita clasps his hands in front of him. "Do that and I’ll give your superintendent a glowing recommendation on Midtown’s behalf.”

Harley smiles winningly. "Of course, sir."

Outside, Peter reads over his schedule, and his face drops.

"You...have all the same classes as me."

Harley snorts and snatches the paper back. “No need to get so excited, Parker. Save the confetti for someone you really care about.” 

"I–" Peter has the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry. I just–"

"Whatever, it’s cool." Harley adjusts the grip on his backpack, and the bell rings, "First class?"

Peter pushes himself off the wall. "Um, math. Calculus, to be specific. I'll show you where."

Class starts and Harley settles into his role easily, like slipping on a winter coat.

When it comes time to introduce himself, he lets his Tennessean drawl bleed through just enough that his words run together like syrup and his ‘ _g_ ’s drop a couple of times here and there. It’s not how he normally talks—his mother made sure of that—but it’s fun to see the effect it has on people. Contrary to popular belief, Harley can be charming when he wants to. By the time he’s done an audible sigh has swept across the classroom and several cheeks are flamed pink. 

Peter hasn’t even looked up from his textbook.

Which is annoying, he’ll admit, but it’s not a big deal.

First impressions done and over with, Harley proceeds to gut out his personality until he’s nearly as dull and boring and _perfect_ as...as well Peter.

He raises his hand first, smiles politely when called upon, and keeps a tighter lock on his mouth more than he’s ever had to do in his life to keep his snarky comments at bay. At this point, Harley deserves a goddamn medal for all the sarcasm he's keeping bottled up because it’s honestly starting to eat at his stomach lining.

He gives not only one possible output value for the vector-value function on the board as asked, but lists all possible output values for that function just for the sake of seeing awe blossom across the faces of the other kids and teacher, even as Peter's own face darkens.

Peter's called upon once and startles so badly that he manages to recite the function backward, resulting in a look of concern from the teacher and delightful guffaws from a couple of students.

Harley only raises an eyebrow, and Peter avoids his gaze, sinking into his seat.

The next class is a blur but follows the same pattern: Harley is perfect, and Peter’s progressively trying to burn hole into the back of his head.

It's a win-win situation, really.

During one of the more extended breaks between classes, Harley leans next to Peter's locker while the latter digs some things out for their next class.

"So, how am I doing?" Harley asks, just to make small talk. He did have some manners. "Am I an angel?"

Petet snorts, his face hidden by the locker door. "Most definitely not, but you got the teachers and everyone else fooled so..."

"You sound jealous, Parker." Harley feels his grin widen. It’s the closest thing to personality he’s come to see from Peter, and he kind of likes it.

Peter's head pops back into view, face contorted in denial. "I am _not_! That's stupid. Why would I be–?" He suddenly cuts himself, shoulders tensing, and before Harley can ask what’s wrong, Peter’s abruptly shoved into the locker by a boy in crutches. 

Harley blinks in surprise and pushes himself off the wall, "Hey, wha–?"

"Watch where you're going!" The kid snaps, drawing a few gazes their way. "First the field trip, now this. It's like you're out to get me."

"That's not what happened, and you ran into me," Peter mutters mutinously, but the boy is already ignoring him in favor of facing Harley.

He looks Harley up and down from head to toe, dark eyes appraising."You're the new kid, right? Harley Kendrick?"

"Keener." Harley corrects absently, eyeing the way Peter's shoulders have suddenly drawn in closer, making himself appear even smaller.

"Well, Keener, don't know if you know this, but around here I’m known as the King of Midtown." He grins.

"Are you now?” Harley asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s true,” The boy doesn’t seem to catch the barb. “I don’t know how long you’re gonna be here, but I just wanted to let you know that you are way too cool to be hanging around someone like Penis." He says–no, _declares_ , really, in a ' _my word is law_ ' kind of tone.

"Penis?" Harley repeats. He feels like he's a step behind in a conversation being held in a different language.

"Parker, duh." He nods to Peter whose knuckles have turned white around his backpack strap.

Harley raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name. You are…?"

"Flash Thompson, at your service." The kid does some elaborate gesture with his hand that's probably supposed to look cool, but instead nearly makes him fall over from imbalance.

Peter actually reaches over to steady him but throws his hands up in surrender when Flash glares at him.

"Figured I’d warn you now that unless you want to sink your reputation on the first day, you’re already making the wrong sort of friends."

Flash goes so far as to actually point at Peter, and a ripple of murmurs spreads throughout the hallway. Their little exchange is starting to draw a small crowd and not the kind Harley normally likes.

Peter sees this and winces, "Could we not today, Flash? Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Flash doesn't even look at him. "You should sit with me at lunch today."

Harley looks at Peter, waits for him to do anything—say anything—but nothing happens. He looks back at Flash. The kid is maybe one inch taller than Peter, one and a half at the most, but hardly threatening. He's wearing a blazer, for goodness sakes. He's on _crutches_ , too.

But Peter doesn't move or say anything else, frozen as if standing still and taking the brunt of Flash's insults will make Flash forget he’s there.

That isn't the case, of course.

"C’mon, Penis, tell him how pathetic you are." Flash goads with an ugly grin. There are some scattered chuckles from his goons (said as if there are multiple—there are only two), but everyone else seems content to just watch the action unfold, and no, no, no, nope. This is not happening.

Don't get him wrong. Harley’s perfectly aware that he isn't exactly a saint. Hence why he’s at Midtown and not his own school.

He knows that he can be a sarcastic, little shit when he wants to be, armed with enough vitriol in his tone to melt several sheets of metal, but he has a line. A crooked, sprawling line that occasionally loop-de-loops, but a line nonetheless.

Harley James Keener is not a bully. For the most part, the kids at his school steer clear of him unless they need something fixed or the fire alarm set off at a certain time. Every once in awhile, though, some neanderthal tries to find an easy target in the kid whose dad left nearly a decade ago.

Long story short: it never, _ever_ works out well for them. 

Flash doesn’t know this, unfortunately. Doesn’t know that Harley takes a special kind of relish in stripping a bully’s dignity away, piece by piece until they become aware of how insignificant they are to the grand social order of high school.

Harley sighs. Time to be the hero. (Or anti-hero depending how he looks at it.)

"Ok, listen, Flash, was it?" He asks before Peter can turn any redder. At this point, if a teacher walks by they’re going to think he's going into anaphylactic shock. " _God_ , that sounds so stupid."

Flash's smile falters, visibly caught off guard as he blinks at Harley, "What?"

"Please tell me your parents didn’t name you after a DC superhero because that might actually count as child abuse.” Harley continues. “Do I need to call someone before I leave or…?

Flash splutters incoherently, "Wha–? Why–?!"

"I mean, unless they’re hoping you get hit by lightning at some point, they’re basically dooming you to a life spent in alleyways selling used phones and Bubble Guppies tickets out of a trench coat."

There’s a ripple of shock throughout the hallway and then a couple of giggles.

"I–No!" Flash's face was turning splotchy.

"No, that isn't your real name or no to everything else?" Harley inquires innocently.

"To everything!" He’s fuming, so Harley's work here is about done. "What's your deal, man? I was just offering you a chance to hang out with me."

"And I would have been okay with that if you didn't go all Draco Malfoy on me and warn me to stay away from mudbloods," Harley smiles with his teeth. "I'm pretty good at figuring out who I want to hang out with on my own, but thanks."

Several people openly laugh now, the rest scattering when they remember they have actual classess to attend, and even Goon #1 chuckles before Goon #2 punches him in the arm with a scowl.

“I thought you could use some help fitting in. I can see that I was wrong.” Flash takes a step forward into Harley’s space menacingly, or as menacing as one can while on crutches and wearing a blazer. “Go ahead and make friends with losers. Have fun with that.”

"Pretty sure it’s gonna work out fine, Splash," Harley rolls his eyes. "I'm not exactly sticking around."

"It's Flash," Flash snaps.

"Not really an improvement, bud." Harley's already stepping around him, praying that Peter takes the hint and follows him because he has no idea where his next class is, and it would be embarrassing to turn back because he was going the wrong way.

Someone soon appears in his peripheral, but it's not Peter. Instead, it's the kid Peter had sat with last class. He’s a little shorter than Harley, closer to Peter’s height, with dark olive skin and black hair that parts over his forehead like a curtain. At the moment his round face is split open by a smile, and dark eyes glitter with barely contained laughter. He’s practically skipping alongside Harley.

"Dude," the kid says, almost breathless in awe. "That was the coolest freaking thing I've ever seen!"

"Thank you...random person." Harley smiles, confused.

"Ned," he supplies, shaking his hair out his face. "Ned Leeds."

"Thank you, Ned Leeds," He shrugs like it was nothing. People like modest people, right? (He wouldn’t know—Tony isn’t the best role model in that regard). "Really, it was no big deal."

"You're kidding me, right?" Ned shakes his head almost frantically. "That was awesome! Wasn't that awesome, Peter?"

Harley hadn't even seen him walk up.

"Yeah," Peter agrees slowly, face unreadable. "That was...pretty cool of you, Harley."

"What can I say? I love helping the unfortunate. I also love long walks on the beach and volunteering at animal shelters in my free time,” He pitches his voice a little louder near the end, winking at a group of girls who giggle and scurry off. “I also moonlight as an arachnid-themed vigilante on my weekends.” Harley pretends to shoot a web from his wrist at a boy near the water-fountain, smirking when his face turns beet-red and he fumbles with his textbook. 

"You're no–" Ned cuts off with a weird squeaking noise, and Harley looks over his shoulder in confusion.

Peter’s face has slid from reluctant gratitude to annoyance, an expression that Harley is infinitely more familiar with. “What you love is attention.”

“What gave it away?” Harley grins, fist-bumping some random girl.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Peter continues, irritated. “I can take care of myself."

Harley stops in his tracks and turns around to face him, "Can you, Parker? Because Flash is the farthest thing from a threat I’ve seen since, like, _Hawkeye_.” He smiles gently, although he has a feeling it comes off more as mocking. “Hey, don’t feel too bad I had to handle him for you. If you want it can be our little secret, no reason for Tony to know about it.”

“I don’t care if To– _Mr. Stark_ knows. And I don’t need you to handle anything for me,” Peter’s eyes have narrowed, an edge creeping into his voice. “I’m not some damsel-in-distress, Harley.”

Ha.

Harley rolls his eyes. "You could’ve fooled m–" 

Ned clears his throat loudly, obnoxiously, drawing their attention to him.

“As very uncomfortable and amusing this is to watch, we’re going to be late in like three minutes if we don’t get a move on.” He rubs a red spot on his arm and shifts from side to side. “So why don’t we talk about this on the way? With maybe less passive-aggressiveness?”

Peter looks embarrassed at his outburst, shrinking into himself just as quickly as had shed the exterior. He doesn’t meet Harley's gaze when he walks past him. “Just...Follow me.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Ned says when Peter’s a little way in front of them. “I still think that was pretty amazing.

Harley decides then and there that he quite likes Ned Leeds.

He throws an arm around Ned's shoulder. "We’re going to get along great, Leeds."

***~***

By lunchtime, the cafeteria is buzzing about the mysterious new kid from Tennessee and several people scoot over to make room at their tables when Harley walks by. Flash is pointedly ignoring him from his lunch table, but Harley honestly prefers it that way. He smiles and makes some small talk, collecting numbers he has no plan of ever remembering or using, before making his way to the far end of the cafeteria.

Harley sets his tray down at Peter and Ned's little corner.

"You do realize you can sit anywhere you want, right?" Peter asks as he gets comfortable, setting his backpack down and tucking his leg underneath him. "You've literally become the most popular guy here in a day. I thought that only happened in movies. "

"I'm well aware of the power of my charm and wit." He winks at Ned who chokes on his milk in surprise before chuckling. "But I do enjoy the occasional reminder.”

Peter continues as if he hadn’t said anything. "But you're still sitting here with us. Why?"

Harley shrugs. "Tony personally told me to watch out for you. Gotta follow the old man’s orders, right?"

"I don't need a babysitter." Peter’s tone has changed though, slightly hurt in a way Harley doesn’t quite understand. “...Did he really?”

No, not really, and there’s a part of Harley that wants to reassure him and another that kind of wants to see how far he can take this.

(Harley really, _really_ isn’t a saint.)

"Tony seems to think you do," He peels a pickle off of his sandwich to eat. "Take it up with him, not me."

Peter looks more annoyed than hurt, which helps ease Harley’s guilt a little, but before he can say anything Ned jumps in, no doubt trying to prevent a repeat of earlier. “So...do you like Star Wars?”

Harley launches into a conversation with Ned, who just seems happy to have another person to debate Star Wars logistics with. Peter mumbles something about studying, pulls out a textbook he flips through mechanically, seemingly lost in thought.

"C'mon," Ned groans. "You can't tell me you believe that the force is because little aliens live in your cells."

"Why is that so impossible?" Harley steals one of his ketchup packets. "Remind me how many times New York has almost been leveled by little, green people?"

"Not true! The Centauri were centipede-things, no–"

Peter’s textbook suddenly slams closed. "Hey, Ned, where's MJ?"

Ned blinks, seemingly confused by the abrupt change in topic. "Uh, library? I think? Something about educating the librarian on banned books."

"I think I'll go to offer my support." Peter stands up before either of them can say anything, tucking his textbook underneath his arm. "Do you think you can show Harley to his next class? Thanks, Ned. You’re the best." He throws the last part over his shoulder before disappearing behind the double doors.

"He really doesn't like me," Harley observes aloud, and Ned makes a strange sound that he thinks is supposed to be a laugh.

"What? _Nooooo_."

Harley raises his eyebrow.

Ned deflates. "Ok, fine. Maybe a little. Like the smallest amount.”

“Really?” He asks skeptically.

“Honestly, I haven’t seen Peter actively dislike someone in a while.” Ned looks thoughtful. “Not even Flash."

Harley scowls. "Wow. Thanks. You're making me feel so good about myself, Leeds." The guilt’s settling in now, the crash that comes after Harley is done riding the high of being an asshole, and it makes him want to curl into himself. 

_Selfish_. _Egotistical_. _It’s always about you_. _That’s why he left_. _That’s why_ she _left_. _That’s why Abbie left. That's why you deserve thi-_

"You’re welcome." Ned grins teasingly, and Harley blinks a couple of times, latching onto his voice. He relaxes his hands, having curled them into fists. "Hey, you can still make it better. Peter's a softie through and through. If you really care, just give him a little something and he'll meet you the rest of the way."

"I'm not very good at giving people...something," Harley says slowly, looking down at his hands. They aren't in the habit of giving things back, is what he doesn't say.

There are crescent marks on his palms.

"It doesn't have to be much." Ned shrugs. "Just something."

***~***

_Give him a little something._

"I'm not a nice person."

Probably not the best conversation starter, but the car's been uncomfortably quiet for a minute now, and Harley's a little desperate to find some common ground between him and Peter, if only for the sake of making Tony smile when he tells him later that night.

Peter blinks owlishly, pulling an earbud out. "Um...I've noticed?"

"Good." Harley squeezes the steering wheel, relaxes his hands, repeats. "Because I don't want you thinking there's a nicer side to me—there's really not. What you see is what you get. No returns, no refunds."

Peter’s actively looking at him like he's crazy now, and Harley takes that as a good sign. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because this happens a lot. I say stuff, and people feel bad, and I don't want you thinking that me acting like this is your fault or something equally stupid." He shrugs. "You seem the type. No offense."

"You weren't kidding, huh?" Peter says almost to himself.

"And," Harley continues as if he hadn't heard him. "I promised Tony I'd try to, you know, make you not hate me before I leave."

"Ah."

He racks his brain for something not dripping in acid or sarcasm. Sincerity hasn't come easy to him in...in a very long time. "It’s not exactly...intentional, at least not all of it, but it's hard to reel it in sometimes. I get...prickly."

"Like a pufferfish." Peter supplies.

He nods. "Yes, exactly, like a–" his brain catches up. "–Wait, what?"

"You know, the fish who blows up?"

"The...poisonous ones?" Harley ventures.

"Tetrodotoxin," Peter confirms, and he suddenly lights up, "It's more potent than arsenic and cyanide actually which is crazy when you think about it because..."

Harley stares until Peter trails off. "Sorry. I'm rambling. It’s–it’s a thing I do."

"Oh, was that what that was? And here I thought I was having a stroke." He switches lanes without there really being enough time to switch lanes and narrowly avoids a three-car pile-up.

They roll to a stop under the red light. "I just want you to know that I don't not like you," Harley says in his concluding statement.

_Give him a little something._

"I don't _not_ like you either," Peter says after a brief silence and hey, progress.

"Not that it matters much seeing as how I'm leaving tomorrow. So, you don't have to worry about me anymore." He drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter open his mouth and then hesitate, chewing his bottom lip instead.

"Something you want to share with the class, Parker?" 

That gives him the push he needs. "There's this shake shop on 3rd Avenue that has, like, the best frozen desserts ever. Mr. Stark loves their gelato, even if he hates to admit it. Anyway, it’s one of those good tourist traps that are worth the money an–”

"–Your point?" Harley interrupts as gently as he can. Peter wasn’t kidding about the rambling.

Peter takes a deep breath. "And you haven’t really experienced Queens unless you’ve eaten there. So, let's go before you leave."

"Like, today?" Harley asks.

"Unless you have other plans." Peter looks deeply skeptical as he says this, and Harley doesn't know if he should be offended.

He stares long and hard until Peter is pink and squirming, and the silence itself is a physical thing.

_Give him a little something._

"Or not," Peter mumbles, looking away. "You could always drop me off at–"

"I'm in." He interrupts.

Peter blinks in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah." He floors the gas pedal when the lights turn green. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MCU Rant of the Day** : Pepper Potts - Part 1 (because believe me, there's going to a hell of a lot be more.)
> 
> \- MCU Pepper Potts is part of a group of female characters who, in my opinion, are only created to serve as the love interest to the male protagonist. Like, if you were to ask me what her personality was, I honestly wouldn't be able to tell you because it's like...???? 
> 
> \- And it's not only Pepper either. I feel like all the female characters in early MCU movies were like...super one-dimensional??? With the exception of, like, Peggy Carter, but even then. Don't even get me started on Jane from Thor.
> 
> \- I honestly blame bad writing because I've read fics that made me absolutely love Pepper, but in the movies, it's like her entire character is centered around Tony Stark, which, you could argue, "Well, yeah, he's the main character." So, then why is Rhodey more fleshed out than her? 
> 
> \- Anyway, the reason why Pepper and Tony aren't tagged together is that I'm not sure if I want them together yet. Also, I really do prefer their friendship to their romance. I think she and Rhodey do really well at balancing out Tony's...everything. Platonically. But's that's a whole other rant for another chapter.
> 
> \- Before this turns into an essay longer than my actual chapter, I'm going to conclude: Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk. 
> 
> \- If you've made it this far, you're awesome. What do you guys think? I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions.


	4. In which Peter and Harley (kind of) bond (and Spider-Man makes his debut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, what do you want me to say?" Peter throws out his arms.
> 
> "I don't know, I basically just poured my heart out to you–"
> 
> "–I'd hardly call it that–"
> 
> "–maybe stop making those ridiculous Bambi eyes–"
> 
> "–for doing the bare minimum–"
> 
> "–I'd appreciate some acknowledgment, too. Not much, I'm not picky. Maybe a smile, a high-five, even–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!!!
> 
> New chapter. A little later than planned, but it's another long one, so I hope you enjoy! Next one should be up in a day or two hopefully. 
> 
> [This chapter was inspired by Pretty Keener by mauvera, and Problem/Solution: Keener Edition by enzhe. Check them out!]

“So...do you like Star Wars?” Ned’s trying to sound casual, but Peter can hear the undercurrent of unease in his voice. His best friend’s a lover, not a fighter, and Peter knows it’s his way of keeping the peace, extending the olive branch that Mr. Stark's relying on Peter to hand out.

He feels even worse when Ned shoots him an understanding smile.

“Who doesn’t?” Harley grins, his demeanor softening slightly in the time it takes for him to shift his focus onto Ned. The smile he gives him is far more sincere than any of the ones Peter’s seen directed at other students or teachers. Far less mocking than the ones he deigns to give Peter.

Before long, Ned’s engaged him in a lengthy discussion of why _The Empire Strikes Back_ is the best Star Wars movie ever and how Harley needs to step the fuck back with that _The Last Jedi_ mess. It’s hardly a new discussion—Ned and Peter have this conversation at least once a week. Peter could recite Ned’s arguments verbatim if he wanted, down to the ten-point explanation of why Darth Vader and Luke’s battle is a cinematic masterpiece, and he knows Ned’s chosen this topic for just that reason. So Peter doesn’t have to try too hard to contribute to the conversation if he wants. 

Every once in awhile Ned pauses slightly, invisible cues inviting Peter to join the discussion, and glossing over the silence easily whenever Peter fails to speak up.

And Peter knows he should be trying harder. Knows that to some extent Mr. Stark expects him and Harley to bond, and usually meeting the inventor’s expectations is motivation enough for Peter, but it’s hard when his brain doesn’t want to cooperate. When the same insecurities that have been plaguing him since he first met Harley, hell, maybe even _before_ then, start cropping up in his head, fueled by the other teens' throwaway comments.

_“Hey, don’t feel too bad I had to handle him for you.”_

_"Tony told me to watch out for you. Gotta follow the old man’s orders, right?"_

_"Tony seems to think you do, though. Take it up with him, not me."_

Logically, Peter knows that the chances of Mr. Stark somehow hiring Harley to babysit him at Midtown is little to none, not to mention completely ridiculous and stupid, but his thoughts refuse to see past the fallacy, stuck on them like a broken record player.

He gives up on paying attention to the conversation entirely, mumbling something about studying, and Ned lets him have the out with a worried look that promises a bunch of concerned text messages after school. 

Peter is the absolute worst. He doesn’t deserve Ned. He knows this.

Harley, on the other hand, acts as if he’s known Ned for years. He laughs at all the right jokes, jokingly disagrees where Peter usually would, and somehow manages to hold his ground against Ned’s rant about how Palpatine shouldn’t be alive, all without slipping into the condescending or humoring tone that lines his conversations with Peter.

When Peter’s textbook starts to dent underneath his fingers, startling him from his thoughts, he takes it as a sign that he should probably leave before he does something stupid. 

Like, reveal his secret identity to all of Midtown.

Harley laughs at something Ned’s said, annoyingly easy and sincere, and Peter narrows his eyes at him.

Or punt a certain someone across the cafeteria room.

His little finger punches through the back cover, and ok, he needs to go.

He closes his textbook, perhaps a little louder than intended because Ned and Harley’s conversation suddenly still. 

He takes the opening. “Hey, Ned, where’s MJ?”

Ned looks confused, and Harley just looks vaguely amused as he does with anything concerning Peter."Uh, library? I think? Something about educating the librarian on banned books."

"I think I'll go to offer my support." Peter stands up and tucks his textbook underneath his arm before they can notice the damage. "Do you think you can show Harley to his next class?” He doesn’t quite wait for a response, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. “Thanks, Ned. You’re the best."

He all but runs out of there, earning odd looks from a couple of kids who linger in the hallway, but Peter’s too busy trying to clear his thoughts. Maybe he really should go see MJ.

The library is always a nice reprieve for his senses, quiet and still in the way the cafeteria rarely is. He hears MJ before he sees her, her voice sharp and clear as she tears into the librarian's policies, and somehow Peter feels better already, the anxious thoughts in his head quieting for a moment in her whirlwind presence.

“Ms. Jones, if you could please lower your voi–” 

“You mean to tell me that _The Diary of Anne Frank_ is considered questionable material? By who, exactly? Hydra? What gives the school board the right to–” 

She barely spares him a cursory glance when he walks by, raising an eyebrow in response to his thumbs-up, before returning to the discussion at hand. Peter lingers near the bookshelves until she’s done with her tirade, pretending to be interested in Ancient Greek history. A minute later, the librarian storms off, face flush with frustration, and muttering furiously under her breath about needing a “fucking raise.” MJ appears on the other side of the bookshelf, eyes alight with victory, and Peter leans forward with a conspiratorial grin.

“How are you still alive?” He whispers, just in case she’s nearby. “She nearly bit Ned's head off when he suggested they add comic books to the catalog."

"I'm persistent. And persuasive." MJ tilts her head a little, a flickering smile briefly making an appearance. “And I haven’t been caught watching porn in the library.”

Peter laughs and pulls away, amused, and embarrassed on behalf of his friend. “That’s not what happened, and you know it. So you can stop reminding Betty about it every chance you get.”

“I could.” MJ simply shrugs and pushes off, walking to a table near the window that holds her backpack. “But how else would I torture, Ned? Unsurprisingly, I don’t have that much material on him that doesn’t pertain to your...internship.”

Something breaks in the librarian’s office, and she lets out a string of swears that are quickly muffled. 

"I think she likes you," Peter smirks, sitting across from her. He sets his textbook down next to her backpack. 

MJ scoffs and pulls her cardigan closer around her, her knees coming up in front of her. "She hates me."

"She likes to hate you, then." Peter amends and MJ's lips quirk upwards.

“I'll take it.” MJ looks at him inquiringly. “You know, most guys don’t hang out around their exes nearly as much as you do.”

“I’m not most guys.” Peter grins when she visibly cringes at the line. “And you’re not most exes.”

“God, that was horrible. I hate you. Go away now. Forever, please.” She pulls a book out from her backpack, flipping it open to the middle pointedly as if to punctuate the moment she checks out of their conversation.

“Sorry, sorry.” Peter apologizes.

"As much as I love your company, Peter, what are you doing here? And without your shadow, no less?

"Harley?" Peter clarifies. Peter is 95% sure MJ knows everything anyone in school has learned or exaggerated about Harley Keener, plus everything available online, very much including his name.

"That's what they call him." Said as if she doesn’t know everything about everyone in the school and could quite possibly find blackmail material on Nick Fury if the need ever arose.

“I left him with Ned in the cafeteria.” Peter idly tugged at the corner of his textbook, pulling it back repeatedly. “It was getting a little loud in there, and I needed to take a breather. Hence the library.” 

“Hmm,” MJ muttered noncommittally. “What else?”

“And I...wanted to talk to you." He refuses to meet her gaze, afraid that whatever thoughts he’s having will broadcast themselves across his face.

"Is something wrong?” MJ asks, and the protectiveness lining her tone makes Peter smile a little. “Think long and hard before you say ‘ _nothing_ ,’ Parker because I already know you’re a liar.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.” He mutters, tearing at well-word edges.

Without warning MJ reaches over and yanks Peter’s textbook towards her, causing him to nearly face-plant into the table.

“ _Hey!_ ”

His cry echoes and someone shushes him. He throws an apologetic smile over his shoulder before turning back to MJ. She’s turned the textbook over, eyeing the small dents impassively.

Peter’s face warms under her searching gaze, and he quickly pulls the textbook back. 

Before they had officially become friends, MJ’s perceptiveness had been on a whole other level of scary. Mostly because out of everyone at Midtown she’d been the one Peter was most afraid would discover his secret first.

Which, granted, she did. Peter’s just lucky that MJ’s a decent person and not, like, Flash or something.

She’s attuned to him in a way that even Ned can't quite replicate, and not for lack of trying. MJ just knows things about Peter. She reads him like an open book that’s been annotated and highlighted in key places, and Peter, in turn, likes to think he knows things about MJ that were exclusive only to him.

Random question,” Peter squirms under her prying gaze and looks down at his textbook. "What do you think about Harley?"

MJ purses her lips and leans forward like she’s about to tell him a secret. "I don't."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I know but, do you like him?"

"I heard about what he did to Flash." MJ picks up her book once more. “I liked that.”

That doesn’t answer his question. "But do you like _him_?"

MJ pauses and raises one slow eyebrow. 

"No, I don't." She’s articulating her words slower now, not condescendingly, but more like she’s trying to make sure Peter understands her. "The student body is sheeple, Peter. Half of the kids here don’t even know what he looks like, and they’re falling over themselves to get into his pants, brain, or both.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t let it get to you too much.”

"Yeah, I know. It’s just...." Peter cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Ok."

"You don't like him," MJ states rather than asks.

And that must be what Peter needs—the opportunity to just admit his dislike to someone, _anyone_ —because before he knows it, his mouth is opening, "He's just so full of himself! Like, we get it you're smart—there's no need to shove it in our faces by applying the golden ratio to the Empire State Building. And condescending—God, he's so condescending—and _mean_ and–"

"The other intern, per se," MJ interrupts, and Peter looks down. He doesn’t bother to ask how she knows.

“Mr. Stark didn’t tell me he was coming, which I get because he’s not obligated to tell me anything. But...but now he’s here in Midtown, and he’s my chauffeur.” Peter twists his fingers together, anxiously. “And it feels like Mr. Stark hired him to babysit me or whatever for a day which I know isn’t true, but the entire thing just feels like a job interview. What if by the time he leaves, Mr. Stark realizes how much better Harley is than me?”

"Don't frown, Parker." MJ taps the skin between his brow, and his gaze jumps back up. "You'll get wrinkles."

"I thought you didn't believe in beauty standards and thought wrinkles were a sign of distinguished wisdom." Peter bats her hands away and she leans back.

"They are. Why do you think I don't smile?"

"You're smiling now."

"Because you're contagious." She buries her face in her book. "Now go away. I'm reading."

After a moment, "Don't worry about all of that stuff, Peter. You're...pretty amazing. Mr. Stark is lucky to have you." Peter looks up from demolishing his textbook corners in time to see MJ duck her head back down, but not before catching the faint blush darkening her brown cheeks.

He feels his own face warm in response.

Ex-girlfriend or not, Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how MJ makes him feel.

"Thanks." He whispers shyly.

"Whatever. I thought I told you to go away."

***~***

Peter’s not expecting Harley to take him up on his last-ditch offer of milkshakes and gelato to make amends. He also isn’t expecting the sort-of, kind-of apology the other kid lobs at him, either, so that shows how much he knows. The light turns green, and Harley wastes no time pressing his foot against the pedal, propelling the car down the street.

“Um,” Peter says, trying to force his heart back down his throat. “You don’t know where you’re going.”

Harley’s brows furrow slightly, brief confusion making way for a spark of clarity. “Oh. Right. Duh. Friday?”

“Yes, Mr. Keener?” Friday replies, lighting up the dashboard.

“Directions to…?” Peter nearly has a heart attack when his eyes slide off the road to meet his own, looking for an answer. 

“Bernardo’s Shake Shoppe.” He squeaks out, and Harley grins, turning back in time to maneuver around a yellow cab. 

“You heard the man.” He turns the steering to make a turn far sharper than it has any right to be, and Peter’s grip tightens on his armrest. “Thanks, Friday.”

“You’re welcome. ETA: fifteen minutes.”

Harley makes a face. “Bet I could make it there in ten.”

“You really don’t–” Peter’s cut off, as Harley floors the gas pedal once more.

The trip to Bernardo’s is simultaneously the longest and shortest ten minutes of Peter’s life, and honestly, it’s all Harley’s fault.

For starters, he’s a terrible driver.

And not, terrible in the way Peter is at driving—may Flash's car rest in peace—but terrible in the sense that he drives with a confidence that borders on reckless. The kind of recklessness that has Peter half-convinced the _Fast & Furious _theme will start blaring on the speakers and secret agents will start gunning them down. Harley certainly acts as if that’s the case.

Peter can’t help but feel a little insulted, now, by Tony’s earlier comments about his skills behind the wheel. Sure, he’s bad, but at the very least he’s never attempted to drive up a construction ramp the same way Harley always seems to attempt to try whenever they pass one. 

And maybe he’s being a little harsh, but there are just too many instances where Peter’s gripping his seatbelt and praying to whatever Asgardian is listening that Harley won’t drive them into the nearest semi for that to be entirely true. At the speed they’re going, Peter’s not going to be surprised if they’re driven off the road entirely on their way to the shoppe.

Luckily, they don’t.

"You can let go of the handle now," Harley smirks, turning the ignition off.

"Oh. Right." Peter gives himself a moment to relax so that he doesn't pry the entire thing away from the car when he does finally let go.

That would be a little difficult to explain. Not to mention that Tony would probably kill him for wrecking his car’s interior.

Harley leans back in his seat, twirling the keys around his fingers. “That bad?" 

" _No_..." He lies.

Harley snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. "You're a terrible liar, Parker." For one, though, his words aren’t bladed with hidden insults and condescending smiles, and Peter takes it as an improvement. He tosses his hair back and continues, “In my defense, Rose Hill has like ten cars on the street at any given time. Here, it's like everyone and their grandma is trying to get somewhere. Question: If it’s like this every day, how exactly does anyone get anywhere?"

"Walk. We walk." Peter can't contain the nervous laugh that bubbles from between his lips. He must still be in shock. "Buses. Trams. Trains. The subway is a godsend on the weekends."

"Tony told me that the subway was for people who had sold their souls to the corporate engine. And mole people." Harley braces his elbow on the armrest between them and leans forward. His eyes are very, very blue. “Is that true?”

Peter fights the urge to move back. "That's...not true."

"You don't sound sure about that." Harley raises an eyebrow.

"There are no mole people in the subway." _I think_ , is what he doesn't say.

“Well, that sucks.” He moves back and Peter relaxes a little. “Anyway, hard as it may be to believe, what with your heart attempting to run a 5k at the moment, I passed my driver's test with flying colors."

"Really?" Peter's kind of impres–

"On my second try," Harley adds with an impish grin, and Peter falters.

"What happened the first time?"

"I totaled the car trying to avoid a goat in the road," Haley says. Like it’s something that just _happens_ , apparently, in Rose Hill.

"Really?!" Peter asks.

"No, I never learned to parallel park." Harley pushes his door open and throws a leg out. "So on that note, careful opening up there. The car’s on like eighty percent curb and twenty percent street.”

Peter takes his time inching the door open and sliding through, Tony's warning from earlier ringing through his head. Only when he's able to close the door scrape and ding-free that he releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"This the place?" Harley locks the doors and shoves the keys into his pockets.

"Yep." Peter can't help but feel a rush of nostalgia at the familiar red-and-white checkered tablecloths and old-style booths placed outside the shoppe.

Harley's own lips quirk as he gives it a once-over. "Charming."

Five minutes later, they're seated at one of the booths near the back, having already given their order. They’ve made it before rush hour, something Peter’s senses are grateful for. There are a few people already there, scattered across the diner with textbooks and laptops in front of them and a woman reading a book, but for the most part, it's empty, a soft Italian lullaby gently floating around the shoppe.

"Here, you boys go,” Lucia sets the cups of frozen cream in front of them, tucking her tray under her arms once she's done. “Stracciatella for Peter and Tiramisu for his handsome friend." 

"Thanks, Ms. Lucia." Peter smiles.

"' _Thanks, Ms. Lucia_.'" She parrots, rolling her eyes. "Is that all you have to say? I haven't seen you in forever! You've grown so big!"

"It's nice seeing you too." Peter doesn't bother mentioning she saw him a couple of months ago on a date with MJ. Or during a study break with Ned last week. He’s learned it’s easier not to linger on it for too long. 

Lucia rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "So you claim, but if that were true I would see you more often.” She appears to take notice of Harley again and grins. “Are you at least going to introduce me to this young man?" 

Harley shakes her hand firmly, winning smile slotting into place the same way it did in class. “Harley Keener, ma’am. Peter’s just showing some of the finer sights of the city.” He punctuates his sentence with a wink, and Lucia cackles in surprise, the gold in her teeth glinting as she playfully swats him with her washcloth.

"Oh, I _like_ this one, Peter. A little heartbreaker, aren't you? Are you staying long, dear?"

"Leaving tomorrow, I'm afraid." Harley shrugs sheepishly.

"What a shame," She sighs a little. "Well, then consider this one on the house."

It’s always on the house, has been for a while now, and Peter desperately wishes she would stop. "No, we can't. It's fine, really, I can pay this tim–"

"You're kidding me, right?" Lucia interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

"I can't–"

"You can and you will." She throws her washcloth over her shoulder and places her hands on her hips. "Consider this payment for that time May helped sort out those building permits."

"But you said that the last time I came in with M–" Peter starts to argue weakly before a foot suddenly nudges his ankle underneath the table, cutting him off.

"C'mon, Parker," Harley grins. "Let the lovely woman show you her gratitude."

"Thank you, dear." Lucia smiles at Harley. "And enjoy."

She ruffles his hair before returning back to the counter, and Peter frowns down at his dessert before looking out the window. Sunlight spills into the diner, warming his skin and the tablecloth, and casting a soft golden glow on everything. It’s a beautiful day, and a part of Peter wishes he was sharing the moment with Ned, or MJ, or heck, even Happy —Read: _anyone_ but Harley.

He pushes that part of him down, stuffs his insecurities in a box he shoves to the far corner of his mind, to watch Harley’s reaction as he spoons creamy gelato into his mouth. Blue eyes widen as he makes a muffled moan, and Peter feels himself thaw a little.

Anyone who enjoyed Lucia's homemade gelato couldn't be totally bad, right?

"Good?" He grins.

"Try amazing," Harley takes another spoonful. "Granted, I don’t have much to compare it to. Rose Hill isn’t exactly a bustling metropolitan area with Italian-themed shake shoppe’s lying around.

"What does Rose Hill have then?" Peter asks, curious about what sounds to be Harley’s hometown. "You know, other than the ten cars and occasional goat as you've mentioned."

"He makes jokes," Harley announces, seemingly to himself, as his grin widens. "But no, there isn't much. Not like New York, anyway. "

"What about your school?” Peter continues. “What's that like?"

Harley huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes. "Nothing like Midtown, that's for sure. Think fewer drones, more tractors, and a 50-year-old mascot named Gabby the Goat."

Peter freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Is the mascot 50-years-old or the person inside it?"

An amused snort. "Your guess is as good as mine."

The silence that follows isn't exactly companionable, but it’s a far cry from the ones they had been sharing throughout the day, tense and awkwardly hostile. 

“Happy told me that you used to visit all the time,” Peter ventures cautiously, peering at Harley from beneath his eyelashes. “Back when Mr. Stark lived in Malibu full-time.” Or as full time as anyone like Mr. Stark could live anywhere.

"Yeah." Harley's raised eyebrow reads, _So?_

"So...what happened?” And then suddenly aware that he might be crossing some line, he adds, “You don't have to tell me or anything; I'm just curious."

"Why do you think something happened?" Harley asks after a stilted silence, tilting his head inquiringly. "Things were just...complicated, for a while, back home, and I couldn't visit as often as I liked. Before I knew it, Tony had switched out California for NYC and me for...well, you.”

"I–That's not–" Peter feels his face start to burn. "I'm not–"

"I'm joking, Parker," Harley smirks, twirling his spoon, and with the various shades of sarcasm, Peter’s heard from him so far, he’s surprised not to detect any at all. "Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack."

Ok, this is just _weird_. 

Peter’s no MJ, but he likes to think he’s usually (occasionally) a pretty good judge of character. Only, Harley’s a mystery if there ever was one, and Peter feels no closer to making sense of him now than he was when Harley stood up to Flash for him.

"What's with the look?" Harley asks, pulling the spoon from his mouth.

"What look?" Peter replies, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

"The one on your face."

"I'm not wearing a look." Peter resists the urge to touch his face to see if he is, in fact, wearing a look.

"Yes, you are. It’s the same look teachers back home get when I try to explain String Theory to them.” He winks. “Not that hard, by the way,”

It takes a valiant effort not to roll his eyes, but Peter succeeds. "I'm trying to figure you out,” He admits.

"Oh?" Harley's eyes twinkle, amused. "Well, I'm a little more complicated than String Theory, granted."

"I just–" Peter hesitates briefly then plows on. "I don't know anything about you. Like, until about a week ago, I barely knew you existed outside of Mr. Stark's obscure references to someplace in Tennessee and even then, I thought you were code for something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know—a secret military base or lab or whatever."

"Sorry to disappoint." Harley kicks his feet up on the empty space of the booth. "Well, lay it on me. What've you got so far?"

Peter tears his eyes away from Harley's combat boots. "What?"

"Tell me five things you think you know about me and I'll tell you five things I know about you." He shrugs. "Easy bonding exercise."

"Really?" Peter asks incredulously.

"Totally. We're guaranteed to be best friends by the end of this."

Peter’s skeptical. "Guaranteed by whom?"

"Oprah, who else?" Harley replies with a straight face, and Peter’s unsure if he’s making a joke or not.

He shakes his head. “I don’t–”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Harley’s mouth tips into a goading smile. “There has to be more to you than what I’ve seen.”

 _Ouch_.

"Fine, I guess. Alright. So, five things..." Peter holds out his hand and ticks off one finger. "You're a terrible driver."

Harley gives him a look that clearly expresses _is that the best you can do?_

"But you're really good with engines." He continues. "You’re the first student our shop class teacher’s taken an interest in since, like, freshman year. He practically cried with joy when you knew the difference between electric motors and ICEs.”

"I'm a prodigy."

Peter ticks off a second finger. "Which leads to my second thing: you're smart. Really smart. Happy told me you took apart Mr. Stark's microwave with nothing but a screwdriver."

“Considering he broke into my garage, I’d say he had it coming.” The smile Harley gives him is full of mischief.

"You're kind of an asshole," Peter adds.

" _Err_." Harkey bleeps. "I gave you that one. It doesn't count."

"You didn't let me finish,” Peter hesitates before continuing. “You're kind of an asshole, but you know how to make people think you're not."

"I like to lull people into a false sense of security." Harley shrugs.

Peter ignores him. He feels like he’s on the precipice of an epiphany here, but he’s not sure what kind."You're...kind of a jerk, but you don't like bullies. That's why you stood up to Flash."

"Don't tell me he didn't have it coming. I still can’t believe that’s his actual name." Harley rolls his eyes. "Fifth?"

"Something happened back home in Rose Hill. Mr. Stark said he was working some things out for you, and now you're here."

Harley raises an eyebrow. "Conclusion, Holmes?"

Peter tries to piece together his thoughts, relaying them slowly aloud, “You’re a mechanical genius. Chances are you would’ve caught Mr. Stark’s attention eventually, but the way the two of you met left an impression on him. Something to do with him crashing into your garage, I’m guessing. He’s cared about you ever since which–” means something because Mr. Stark doesn’t let people in easily, and Peter had thought he was special until–

Peter clears his throat, pushing the poisonous thoughts aside. “Anyway, you’re good at pretending to be what people want. You’re the teacher’s pet, the class clown, and the kid who volunteers at animal shelters all rolled into one, and yet you’re really neither of them. You’re–you’re kind of a jerk, but you have lines you don’t cross, which is why you ripped into Flash the way you did."

"Anything else?" Harley looks mildly impressed.

"You haven't been to visit Mr. Stark in a while because of things that have been happening back home. You're here now so something's changed, I guess." Peter wavers before gently asking, "Does it have something to do with your eye?"

Harley’s spoon, which had been idly swirling his gelato around his cup, suddenly stills. Something panicked flashes in the blue of his eyes before it’s gone, his smile having tightened around the corners, and Peter can almost see the exact moment his mask slides back on fully.

"This old thing?" He waves a nonchalant hand. "I was being stupid and got hit in the face with a baseball."

"Oh." There’s definitely more to that story than he’s letting on. “Well, how’d I do?

"Great." Harley's voice is flinty. "You should look into detective work."

Which is...yikes.

Peter’s fully aware of the kind of person Harley is— _hell_ , Harley _himself_ admitted to being an asshole no more than five ago—and yet, it still takes him by surprise when a bit of that mocking drawls starts to creep back into his voice from seemingly nowhere.

"I'm sorry.” Peter tries. “That was stupid, I shouldn– I didn't mean to–"

"My turn!" Harley chirpily interrupts, his tone undercut by the mean twist of his lips. His feet come back down as he leans forward. "One: You're smart. Really smart. You proved it the day we met, and Tony wouldn't have kept you around otherwise."

Peter frowns as Harley continues.

"Two: You're not super popular, but everyone knows you as something: the kid with the Stark Internship, the kid whose hand is always raised, the smartest kid in the school, blah, blah, etc, etc." He mimes a mouth with his hand.

"Three: You let a kid named after a _DC comic book hero_ push you around, so either you're scared of him or you just don't have the balls to do anything about it."

Peter sits up straighter. "That's not tru–!"

"Four," Harley's actively speaking over him now. "You're the epitome of a bleeding heart. You seem the type to give a mugger your wallet if they promise never to do it again. Long story short: you see the best in everyone. Hence why, I'm assuming, you've given yours truly a chance in the first place."

He winks. Peter feels his ears turn red.

"Last but not least, you call Tony, Mr. Stark."

Peter swallows, his throat dry despite the cool dessert he's just forced down. "Your verdict?"

"Now correct me if I'm wrong," Harley steeples his hands and makes an expression of intense concentration that Peter would consider comical if it didn't feel like Harley was about to verbally rip him to shreds. “You’re a sixteen-year-old boy who lucked out and caught Tony Stark’s attention. You amuse him, so he keeps you around as an intern. At school you’re too awkward to be popular but too smart to stay under the radar, so you’re in this weird middle ground where no one really messes with you, but they liked to watch when Flash—sorry, I can't say his name without laughing—does. You’re too nice for your own good and I’m still not sure if it’s an act of some kind or if you’re trying to prove something.”

There’s genuine confusion in his voice near the end, and if Peter were feeling less like he was about to fall apart, maybe he would dwell on it more. But he is, so he doesn’t.

Harley shakes his head as if to clear the puzzlement and continues. “Last, but certainly not least, you call Tony Mr. Stark. Now, that one I don’t have an explanation for, so you’ll need to help me out."

"I–" Peter's still reeling from Harley's words.

 _Lucked out_. _You amuse him_.

"I’m sorry, it’s just...You know him, don't you?" Harley interrupts. "Your pictures are all over the mansion, so obviously you do."

"They are?" Peter asks blankly. He’s never noticed before.

" _They are_ ," Harley confirms, rolling his eyes hard. "Why call him Mr. Stark when he clearly cares about you more than any other regular intern?” There's an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice and suddenly, Peter doesn't think they're playing a game anymore.

The way he says it…the almost hidden fracture of hurt in his words. Harley sounds _jealous_ , which can’t be the case because 1) Tony introduced Peter as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, so there isn’t a threat there, 2) Harley can form sentences around Tony without sounding like an idiot, so he’s got him beat there, and 3) Peter’s obviously projecting his own insecurities onto Harley.

The silence drags on awkwardly, and Peter hurriedly tries to rectify the hostility building between them.

“It's just out of respect,” he explains quietly, hating how uncertain he sounds.

"Whatever. It doesn’t matter." Harley snaps, looking out the window. "It was a stupid game, anyway."

And that kind of stings because Peter didn’t want to play the “ _stupid game_ ” to begin with.

He’s trying, ok? To make nice with Harley and see what Mr. Stark sees in him, but it feels like for every stride Peter makes in understanding him, Harley’s there to rip the carpet out from under his feet to prove that he doesn’t really know him at all. 

It’s almost like the universe is sending him a message.

_You're too nice for your own good._

Peter kind of feels like throwing up his gelato.

“I should probably be heading home soon,” He says instead, beyond grateful when his voice doesn’t waver. He stands up and gathers his cup and spoon to throw away. “Wait for you by the car?”

If Harley replies he doesn’t hear him, already waving goodbye to Lucia and making his way out of the shoppe. Outside, Peter all but collapses onto the wooden bus bench near Tony’s ride, grateful for open space. He closes his eyes and leans back, desperately trying to untangle the mess of complicated emotions in his chest before they overwhelm him. 

_(Blue skies in_.

 _Gray skies out_.

_You got it, Pete.)_

Ben’s voice soothes him even as it reawakens a familiar ache, and after a moment, his heart stops trying to climb into his throat. 

"This bench looks like the poster child for tetanus shots."

In spite of himself, Peter feels the corners of his lip tip upward. He really is a bleeding heart. "You got 'em?"

Harley chuckles. "Contrary to Tony's beliefs, Tennessee is not Lewis and Clark's 19th Century backyard. We have vaccines."

When he opens his eyes, Harley in front of him, leaning back against the passenger door with his hands tucked into his pocket. The silence that ensues is uncomfortable and strained, and then Harley surprisingly breaks it. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine,” Peter reassures, a little bit embarrassed by his behavior now. “You told me how you were like. It's nothing personal." 

"Yeah, but that really isn't an excuse this time. I said all that stuff on purpose because I was feeling _stupid_ and _insecure_ , and my _stupid school_ expelled me for _perfectly_ valid reasons, I'll admit, but–" Harley abruptly cuts himself off and huffs frustratedly, running a hand through his hair. "I was being a dick, and I need to chill out."

“Oh.” He says blankly because Peter still struggles to talk like an actual person at the very young age of sixteen. Harley just apologized to him, and he has a feeling he should be recording or something. It certainly feels like a momentous occasion.

"You should feel pretty special right now," Harley grumbles when he fails to say anything more. "I don't do this a lot."

"I–Thanks. I guess."

Harley snorts, eyes glittering. "Way to restore a guy's confidence, Parker."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Peter throws out his arms.

"I don't know, I basically just poured my heart out to you–"

"–I'd hardly call it that–"

"–maybe stop making those ridiculous Bambi eyes–"

"–for doing the bare minimum–"

"–I'd appreciate some acknowledgment, too. Not much, I'm not picky. Maybe a smile, a high-five, even–

“You’re absolutely ridiculous.” Peter marvels suddenly, and Harley’s smile is bright enough to outshine the sun. Peter feels his face warm inexplicably, and he clears his throat.

“You said you needed to get back home, right?” Harley asks, stepping away from the passenger side. He holds the door open for him. “The least you can let me do for being such an ass is to take you home Happy-style. I’ll be an actual chauffeur and everything. Won’t even talk to you on the way.”

“You? Not talking?” Peter jokes, but he steps in, pulling his seatbelt across his chest as the door shuts.

“Oh, be quiet,” Harley says when he reappears in the driver’s seat. “I know how to stop talking. Don’t know why people think I can’t. I can also be civil; although that, admittedly, takes a little more effort.”

“You don’t say,” Peter mutters. "I didn't notice."

Harley's real smile, Peter discovers, when he isn't scheming or saying something sarcastic, is slightly crooked. "I’m taking that as a compliment."

***~***

Harley rolls to a stop in front of an alleyway bracketed by several stores, pedestrians milling about aimlessly with everything ranging from briefcases to grocery bags in their hands.

"Thanks," Peter says, unbuckling his belt. “I can walk to the apartment from here.”

"You sure?" Harley looks around, deeply skeptical. "This place looks like mugging central. Tony would kill me if I let you get mugged. Do you see the problem here, Parker?"

"I'll be fine. I’ve taken this route like a million times." Peter's already grabbing his stuff and opening the door. He steps out and Harley rolls down the passenger window to peer up at him. "But," He acquiesces. "If I do end up getting mugged, feel free to say I told you so."

"As satisfying as that would be," Harley smirks. "I'm sure Spider-Man would save you."

Petet immediately fumbles with his textbooks, dropping half and nearly tearing another in half.

"Why–?" His voice comes out too high and he quickly clears it. "Why do you say that?"

Harley gives him a confused, if not a little concerned, look. "Um...Queens is his turf, right? That's where he operates most of the time. And you live in Queens. ...You need me to add two plus two while I'm at it, Parker?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry–Just. Forgot." Peter quickly ducks down to gather his things so Harley doesn't catch the blush rapidly painting his cheeks.

"Right," Harley drawls as he straightens back up. "And anyway, you have that whole poor, defenseless puppy-dog thing about you. He's practically obligated."

"Yeah, well," Peter needs a subject change like yesterday. "It was nice meeting you, Harley."

Harley snorts, amused. "Was it really?"

...And Peter thinks long and hard for several moments before answering:

"Yeah, it was."

Harley's mouth falls open and then closes, bewilderment flickering across his face. Peter kind of likes being the one to throw him off of his annoyingly perfect game.

"Huh." He finally settles on.

Peter makes a split-second decision, "Give me your phone."

Harley's eyebrows shoot up, but he hands it over. "Why?"

"Don't you think you should've asked me that before you gave it to me?" He taps on his contacts.

"Probably. For all I know, Tony recruited you to break my phone so he could finally saddle me with the latest SI one."

Peter doesn't look up from typing in his number. "Resistance is futile. He always gets you in the end."

"All the more reason to resist."

Peter snorts. "He dropped my old phone in hydrochloric acid."

"On accident?" Harley asks.

"So he claims. We were in the kitchen."

Silence. "...Yikes."

"Yep." Peter finally hands the phone back. "Text me when you're back in Tennessee. I'd like to see Gabby the Goat."

Harley takes it. "No promises."

He doesn't say bye, only rolls up the window and speeds off, clearly over the speed limit. Peter stares after him, watching the car fade into the distance for only a moment before turning back into the alleyway where Spider-Man awaits.

“See you around, Harley.”

***~***

Peter isn’t expecting to see Harley for at least another month.

He finds him two hours later.

"MJ's right. As always. But I don't know, Karen. He was kind of a jerk really, but–"

“Did he look something like that boy, Peter?” Karen's voice interrupts his late afternoon debrief (it's more of a talk, really, but debriefing sounds way cooler) mid-swing, directing his attention to the top of a random building where one Harley James Keener stands and waves wildly.

"What the hell...?" Peter latches onto a telephone pole and turns himself around at the last second. "What the hell is he doing?"

"Why don't you ask?" Karen suggests mildly.

Pete does when he lands in front of him with a near-silent thud. Harley raises an appreciative eyebrow at the display, and Peter mentally pats himself on the back a little.

His first and foremost priority (aside from getting this idiot down safely) is to make sure that Harley leaves New York thinking Peter and Spider-Man are completely different people. By not automatically tripping over thin-air and falling onto his face, he's already distinguished himself from the clumsy loser Harley knows and not-hates.

Not-hates.

God, what a weird day.

Karen does the rest of his job for him by automatically turning on his voice modulator.

"Looking for you," Harley replies, like waiting alone on rooftops is a thing normal people do when they want to meet Spider-Man.

News Flash: Despite all the crazies populating New York, it really isn't.

"Well, you found me." Peter acknowledges, spreading his arms. "...Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, not really..." Harley tilts his head, eyeing Peter's suit the same way a biologist stares at a curious animal he wants to dissect. “Just wanted to see you up close.”

"Alrighty, then." Peter rocks back on his heels. "If you would be so kind as to step down so I could leave, I have superhero stuff to do."

"Superhero stuff?" Harley repeats, eyes glittering as he meets Peter's (Spider-Man's(?)) gaze.

"Yeah." And is Peter puffing out his chest and using this moment to make himself finally feel cooler than Harley? Probably. Maybe. Most likely. "Important hero stuff. You couldn't understand."

"Yeah?" Harley crosses his arms. "Try me."

Peter's at a loss there, but it really shouldn't surprise him that Harley of all people would question a superhero.

He is...surprisingly calm in his presence. Peter’s only ever dealt with people who screamed, stuttered incoherently, demanded pictures (and backflips—but those were fun), but never had anyone just had a normal conversation with him.

It’s kinda nice.

"Well?"

Even if Harley is being insufferable.

Peter starts again. "I don't need to answer tha–"

"Hey, Is your suit made out of micro-fibers?" Harley suddenly interrupts. He takes a step forward and Peter immediately moves away, leaping backward.

Harley throws his hands up and stops. "Sorry. Didn't mean to trigger...whatever that was."

"It's cool. Just...why are you up here? Peter asks, safe from his perch atop an air conditioning unit. He hopes Harley doesn't start throwing rocks at him. That’s happened before.

"I didn’t know how else to find you. You don’t exactly have a phone number I can call. So,” he gestures around them. “Rooftop.”

“Well, as flattering as that is, I feel like as your responsible friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, I should tell you not to climb onto rooftops to attract random heroes. It's dangerous.”

That seems to be the buzzword Harley's looking for because his smile makes a sudden reappearance, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Dangerous?" He spreads his arms against the backdrop of the New York skyline and spins around. “How could this be dangerous?”

"Peter, Harley is approaching the danger-zone of the building,” Karen informs him worriedly. “Please advise him to move away." 

" _Hey–!_ " Peter’s hyper-aware of the way Harley’s still spinning back, his feet barely touching the gutter of the roof before he takes one final step backward–

And suddenly, there's no Harley in front of him.

Shit.

Peter's already diving over the edge, wind whipping past his face as he closes the distance between them. He shoots a web back up the building. Wrapping an arm around Harley, he uses their momentum to propel them up again, wind rushing past his ears as they sail through the air.

They land with a thud, and Karen’s already running diagnostics.

"Elevated heart rate. Labored breathing. Pupil dilated 15%." She pauses for a second and with relief lacing her tone, "He's fine, Peter."

" _Oh, thank God_." He nearly collapses with relief. The thought of having to face Tony if he hadn't made it in time...of having to face himself in the mirror...

"Well, fuck me. I could've died." Harley's voice is not at all properly scarred-for-life the way Peter is currently feeling and it annoys him a little. More than a little.

"Yeah!" He snaps. "Maybe don't perform dramatics on top of eight-story buildings next time."

"Funny you think there’s going to be a next time." Harley's laugh borders on hysteria and Peter can't help but soften, his irritation deflating like a balloon.

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Sorry, I shouldn't be snapping at you. Are you okay?"

"Peachy," Harley raises an eyebrow at Peter's arms, still wrapped around him. "Although maybe you should hold on a little longer. Just in case.”

Peter rolls his eyes even as his face warms, quickly disentangling himself. "Get over yourself. And get down while you're at it. I really do have stuff to do."

Homework, for one. And helping May with dinner.

Harley salutes him with two fingers. "Yes, sir."

Peter watches him turn around and start for the access door—then freeze and look over his shoulder.

"I'm not leaving until you do," Peter warns.

"Yeah. I figured." Harley's smile is softer this time, less bladed and more unsure. "Just...Thanks. For saving me. I wish I had someone like you back home."

Peter crosses his arms. "Well, falling off of buildings, aside, you seem more than capable of solving your own problems."

The laugh Harley gives is jarringly bitter. "You'd be surprised."

"You should come to New York again," Peyer suggests, without thinking. "When you get the chance."

Harley starts to reply then frowns. "How do you know I'm not from New York?"

Oh. Dear. _God_.

"I know everyone here." Peter lies, mentally cringing. "I–Photographic memory. It's a spider thing."

If Peter thought he was panicking before, it's nothing compared to the sheer rush of adrenaline that bursts through his veins as he waits for Harley’s response.

"As questionable as that sounds..." His smile returns. "Maybe I will visit again."

***~***

09:17 PM

  
 **Unknown number** : Just so we're clear, I'm totally renaming you Bambi in my contacts. It just feels really appropriate, no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a rant today, unfortunately, but I do have the inkling of a fic idea that I might pursue in the future, and by future, I mean maybe a year or so from now, so no hard deadline. Kind of a Last of Us Au with Tony and Peter because I love stories that involve older, hardened characters slowly being changed by a younger, more innocent character. I don't know.
> 
> Also random story note: Did you guys know there are some school libraries that actually don't allow the Diary of Anne Frank? Weird right?
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


	5. In which Peter is Bambi (and Tony has a problem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter: The same team you described as having the collective IQ of a pig.
> 
> Peter: Rude, by the way.
> 
> Harley: towards pigs maybe.
> 
> Harley: they’re actually very intelligent creatures.
> 
> Harley: just so we’re clear i’m still talking about the pigs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!!!
> 
> First chapter of 2021!!! Woohoo!!! I'm hoping and praying that I manage to finish this fic this year, but who knows? Switching majors mid-semester isn't the easiest transition (who would've guessed?) and college is a lot more stressful than it was in the beginning.
> 
> Next chapter, fingers crossed, should be up in a week or two.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

**Monday** — 09:46 AM

**Harley** : parker

 **Harley** : hey, parker.

 **Harley** : c'mon, bambi, answer me.

**Peter** : Jesus, Harley, I'm in class right now. You know. Where YOU should be.

 **Peter** : And I told you to stop calling me that.

**Harley** : whatever you say, bambi. here. i got something to show you.

 **Harley** : Attached gabby-the-goat.jpg

**Peter** : ...Harley, what the eff am I looking at?

**Harley** : did you really just type out the eff word instead of just saying fuck? You're precious, Parker. you know that?

**Peter** : Harley!

**Harley** : fine. it's gabby the goat, remember? you asked and you received. i'm waiting for my thank you.

**Peter** :...Are those wires sticking out of it?

**Harley** :...

**Peter** : And fireworks?

**Harley** : i don't know what you're talking about.

 **Harley** : Attached gabby-the-goat(1).jpg

 **Harley** : just a perfectly normal fifty-year-old mascot. nothing to see here.

**Peter** : You've been back in school, what? Three weeks now? Don't you think you should wait a little longer before you start blowing things up? Like a couple of months. Or better yet, never? 

**Peter** : What if you get hurt messing with that stuff?

**Harley** : aww. your concern is touching, parker. i'll be fine, though. this ain't my first rodeo.

 **Harley** : that was NOT an invitation to make a cowboy joke.

**Peter** : I'll restrain myself.

 **Peter** : Seriously though. You could get in trouble. Again. What would Mr. Stark say?

**Harley** : i imagine he'd tell me to use a silicone conductor instead of plastic for a better yield.

**Peter** :...He probably would say that. Bad example.

 **Peter** : What about your parents? They can't have been happy that you were almost expelled.

**Harley** :...

**Peter** : Harley?

**Harley** :...

**Peter** : You didn't blow yourself up, did you?

**Harley** :...

**Peter** : Did I say something wrong?

**Harley** :...my mom's too busy trying not to trip over her feet when she walks to the liquor cabinet to care about whether or not i'm in school.

 **Harley** : and she's in rehab. again. so there's that.

**Peter** : Harley...I didn't know. I'm sorry.

 **Peter** : Harley?

 **Peter** : Frick, I have to put away my phone. I'm sorry.

PETER is offline at 09:10 AM

HARLEY is typing...

**Harley** :...

 **Harley** : Fuck.

_Message deleted_

HARLEY is offline at 09:12 AM ****

***~*** ****

So, look. Tony has a problem. (He can just hear Rhodey’s voice already: “This just in: water is also wet.”) ****

A _new_ problem, then, because heaven knows he could fill a moderately-sized body of water with all of his issues. He’s always been partial to the Great Lakes. ****

Anyway. ****

Here’s the sitch (on a completely _unrelated_ note, Tony’s starting to regret that Disney+ subscription he bought for a certain bubbly semi-faux intern): the Sokovia Accords are a bitch to amend. ****

There are loopholes to untie, clauses to break down, and punishments that teeter on the steep edge of inhumane to remove, and the fact of the matter is Tony’s only one man. Rhodey helps where he can; of course, he does, but his contract with the U.S. military is too much of a conflict of interest for him to get overly involved. Pepper might be one of the smartest women he’ll ever meet, but at the end of the day she’s a businesswoman: her expertise lies in managing stocks and leading board meetings. International legislation? Not so much. ****

Vision might have been helpful, but Tony hasn’t seen him since Berlin, and he has no desire to bring him out of whatever corner of the world he’s managed to carve out for himself and Wanda. (He tells himself his distance has nothing to do with missing Jarvis and Rhodey’s legs, but there are bigger lies he has to convince himself to believe, so he lets this one slide.) ****

T’Challa has an entire kingdom to run, which puts an end to that idea before Tony’s even glanced at his phone. Priorities, after all. Tony may be selfish, but he isn’t _that_ selfish. ****

And Natasha is– ****

 _Ahem_. ****

The point is Thaddeus Ross has the high ground. He pushes against every proposal, every recommended change, everything that suggests so much as a _hint_ of free will. It makes Tony long for the days when they were backed by SHIELD and Fury was their handler. (One more reason to hate Hydra, he guesses.) ****

Progress looks impossible. ****

And then Spider-Man makes his debut at the Washington Monument. ****

Not two weeks later he’s on every headline in the country, having stopped alien technology from being repurposed and sold as weapons and crashing a StarkJet outside New York. ****

Ross rings him up several months later. Spider-Man in exchange for the Accord changes, he offers. ****

He hasn’t stopped since. ****

“Secretary Ross, is it Monday already?” Tony greets cheerfully, stretching his smile painfully wide. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I thought we agreed that our affair should be kept after hours. Don’t want to upset the missus.” ****

Ross ignores that because of course, he does. The reply he gets is curt, “Stark.” ****

If problems were people then Tony’s would be salt-and-pepper blonde, (fairly) old—older than Tony anyway, the spring chicken that he is at 46-years-old—5'7"-ish, condescending-ly smug, and two minutes away from getting decked in the face with an iron gauntlet had he arrived in person. ****

"You've been avoiding me." Ross continues, his feet planted a foot apart and his arms folded behind his back. Every inch the military man he once was. Still is. ****

Tony's beginning to find he doesn't like military men all that much. ****

His hologram form flickers in front of his desk, blue and shimmery, and Tony quickly types out an order to Friday to keep Peter in the lab. The last thing he needs is the kid walking in on this. He frosts the glass walls just in case. ****

“What? _No!_ I’ve just been busy lately.” He gestures to his desk, which, admittedly, doesn’t hold much at the moment. _Hasn’t_ held much since Pepper took over as CEO, and Tony was reduced to a pretty figurehead. Still. He has no intention of informing Ross of this fact, lest he starts calling Tony at all hours of the day, instead of the twelve he faithfully adheres to. ****

"You know how it is,” He continues. “Head of a multi-billion dollar company and all that." ****

Ross remains unmoved, and if Tony had to name his biggest issue with the daily, three-hour phone conferences he’s forced to sit through—other than the slow wasting away of his sanity, of course—it would be this: Ross’ developed immunity against his antics. It makes it a hell of a lot harder to irritate him, which Tony’s found is the easiest way to get rid of him. He doesn’t know whether he should be impressed or annoyed. ****

Ross stares at him impassively. "Is that so?" ****

He settles on annoyed. _Really_ fucking annoyed. ****

"It is so," Tony replies loftily, firmly tamping down on the urge to roll his eyes. ****

“Did you know I’ve had to assemble a team of telecommunications experts to make contact with you?” ****

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "I beg your pardon?" ****

“I’m being blocked,” A nerve throbs in Ross’s temple sporadically, the only visible sign of his frustration. “Every email is scrambled, every phone call is dropped, every letter is returned to the sender. It took several hours before I could reach your communicator. Why?” ****

Tony smirks. “Sounds like the White House needs to invest in a better internet connection. Free piece of advice from a tech mogul? Spectrum sucks.” ****

“Stark–” ****

“What do you want me to say, Ross? Want me to convince you of my innocence? It’s been a while since I was in the theater, but here.” He clears his throat dramatically and straightens in his chair, adopting a comically bewildered expression, complete with raised eyebrows and a dramatic gasp. “I assure you, Secretary, I had _nothing_ to do with this.” ****

"Stark–" ****

"Friday, my love child, did you know anything about this?" ****

Never has an AI ever sounded so properly scandalized. "I did not, Boss." Atta girl. ****

"Stark–" ****

“I mean, is that even possible?” Tony’s about to milk this for all it’s worth. “You would need to have a computer that not only traces the electrical signal of every incoming message but also identifies which one originates from the State Department. Honestly, that's a tall order for any computer, even an Apple. A StarkBook might just be able to get the job done, but..." ****

"Stark, I swear to Go–!"

“But,” Tony speaks over him, pretending to be in deep thought and pressing a thoughtful finger to his chin. "A shifting algorithmic entity that's connected to an arrangement of devices simultaneously just might work. An entity like–" ****

"–Like me, boss." Friday doesn't even try to hide the smugness in her voice. ****

"That’s right, Fri. But I'd _never_ ." Tony hurries to add. ****

"Boss would never." Friday agrees quickly.

Ross's jaw is clenched shut, the nerve in his forehead twitching, sporadically, and Tony takes the time to imagine his face turning a delightful red. "...Are you quite _done_ , Mr. Stark?" ****

"That depends." ****

"On what?" ****

Tony drops his smile, feeling his expression steel. "Whether or not you've gotten the _fucking_ message."

Ross takes a deep breath, seemingly composing himself and no doubt trying to remember the reasons why he still needs Tony around. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll decide that he needs to sit down for a bit and their conversation will be cut two hours short.

"Spider-Man, Stark. I want Spider-Man." Well, when was the last time Tony got what he wanted anyway?

He rolls his eyes. “You and every pimply-faced fanboy, cat-loving grandma, and absurdly-nicknamed sci-fi wanna-be cosplayer in New York City,” Tony scoffs. “Tell you what, why don’t you spend some of your time and money going after _those_ guys? They’re the ones hurting people and causing massive property damage. I couldn't even tell you how many times I've had to stop a possible feline invasion, it's crazy–"

Ross ignores him. "We've had this conversation before–"

"–Good, so you should already know my answer–" Tony reaches for his mug.

"–And I am once again urging you to comply with the State Department and bring me Spider-Man."

"What makes you think I even know him?" He takes a sip and immediately spits it out into his wastebasket. “Oh, my–! What is this— _battery acid_?!”

He grabs his handkerchief and starts to rub furiously at his tongue. “Ew, ew, ew–!”

For the first time in a long time, Ross looks positively bewildered by Tony’s behavior. It’s almost worth the poisoning attempt.

Tony peers into his mug with a face. “Remind me to fire Happy, Fri."

She sounds amused. "I will not, sir.”

He splutters in disbelief, the absolute _disrespect_. (He _adores_ her.) "Well, someone's getting fired for this."

Ross raises his voice over Friday's undoubtedly snarky reply. "His suit has your touch all over it, Stark. Your technology, your designs, everything. Did you think you were being subtle?"

“I don’t know what that word means. Literally. No clue what you just said.” Tony tosses the contents of his mug in the wastebasket and then throws the mug in for good measure. Fucking biohazard. 

“I notice you haven’t denied the accusation.”

“Which is what, exactly? If I designed Spider-Man’s breathtaking, state-of-the-art, next-generation super suit?” He really does roll his eyes this time. “There’s nothing to deny because I didn’t make it. But I’ll give credit where it’s due: it’s a beautiful piece of work.”

Ross scoffs, and Tony grins sharply.

"And even if I _did_ know him personally—which, I have repeatedly told you, I don't—Spider-Man is _not_ a threat."

"You don't know that."

"Do you watch the local news, Ross?" He inquires incredulously. "He talked a woman out of setting her husband's car on fire when she caught him cheating and then helped her move his stuff out. He helped a couple of girl scouts sell cookies and cleaned the shop window of an elderly couple. Now, I don't know about you, but I just don't see the Sinister Six attempting to recruit him."

"You thought the same about Captain Rogers,” Ross observes icily. “Excuse me if I don't trust your judgment."

...And Tony doesn't even bother to dissect the clusterfuck of emotions that bubble up in his chest at the sound of that name. He’s entertained this for long enough. "This conversation is over."

“Do you know what Spider-Man’s capable of, Stark? Where his limits lie? He’s an undocumented enhanced individual who we have little to no information on.” Ross rolls his shoulders back, sets his face in stone. "I have tried to be patient, but obviously that isn’t working anymore. You have until the end of the week. Our previous agreement stands. Do this, and I’ll implement your proposed changes to the Sokovia Accords."

"And if I don't?" Tony snarls. He hates getting backed into a corner, hates deadlines he or Pepper doesn’t set for himself. “You can’t block the Sokovian Amendments forever, Ross. Sooner or later, I’m going to find a way to get them passed. With or without your approval.”

"Or,” Ross seems to be forcing the words through his teeth, his mask finally cracking. “I find out who he is myself, and you're going to wish you had told me when you had the chance.”

Ross's hologram disappears before Tony can have the last word, petty bitch that he is, and in a burst of frustration, he hurdles the holo-communicator across the room. A small dent appears in the plaster, something else for Pepper to complain about when she comes to check in on him, but he’s too busy trying not to freak out for it to be a major issue at the moment.

"... _Fuck_." He swears, running trembling hands through his hair.

"Boss?" Friday sounds worried. “Your heart rate is elevated. Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Tony exhales shakily. "Yeah, I’m fine. Peter still in the lab?"

“Yes, Boss. Would you like me to tell him to come up to your office?”

"No...no, I'm good. Tell him I'll be right out." He mechanically reorganizes his desk, setting aside papers that need to be signed and a board meeting’s minutes that Pepper wants him to look over, so they can discuss it over lunch tomorrow. His thoughts are a million miles from Earth, cataloging every mistake ever made with Spider-Man, and fuck, if there isn’t a lot.

Too many to count.

He’d been too _casual_. Too _close_. Too _invested_. It was one thing to bring Spider-Man to Berlin. It was quite another to have Iron Man hovering around him like a physical endorsement of helicopter parenting. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he had taken a freaking selfie with the kid and posted it on SI’s Twitter page.

Tony’s made a mistake. But he’ll be damned if he lets anything hurt Peter.

As the lights in his office flicker close, he finds his resolve. "Friday start a new project: Operation Screw Ross Over. He's not touching Peter."

Friday sounds proud when she replies, "Affirmative, Boss."

Down in the lab, Peter’s made himself at home at one of the worktables. It’s a familiar sight, at this point, but Tony finds himself leaning against the entrance, drinking the sight of him in. There’s what looks to be calculus homework spread out in front of him, a textbook cracked open to the side, and a piece of paper that has web fluid formulas scrawled all over it. His headphones are on, and every once in a while, he glances away from his work and down at his phone with a slight frown, seemingly oblivious to Tony's creepy-ass stalker behavior.

Tony shakes himself a little and dons his usual carefree smile. The last thing he wants is for the kid to worry. When he gets close enough, Tony pulls one of the headphones aside, smirking when Peter jumps a little and scrambles to tug the other out, nearly tipping off of his stool. “Mr. Stark! Hey.” 

“What’s with the long face, kid?” He leans back on the table to face him better. “Did May forget to pack your Pop-Tarts and CapriSun today?”

“No.” Peter’s scowl slips off his face, failing to gain transaction as a pout takes shape instead. “It’s just–You know how I’ve been texting, Harley, right?”

He smirks. “A fact that continues to amaze me, but yes, go on.”

“Well, I said something to him and now he’s not texting me back. I think he’s mad at me.” Peter sighs heavily, twirling his pencil. “Again.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Well, what did you say?"

"I asked about his parents." _Ah_. Yeah, that would do it. "And I apologized but..." Peter trails off and bites his bottom lip.

... _But_ Harley has a chip on his shoulder larger than Staten Island and the walls to match. He kind of reminds Tony of himself when he was that age, too smart and too angry at the world without really knowing why.

"Harley just needs time to cool off. Trust me, kid, he'll come around." He nods over to his own worktable. "C'mon and help me with this. I need a fresh pair of eyes."

"Really?" Peter immediately brightens up and practically skips over. "Ok."

For a little while, Tony lets himself forget.

***~***

**Tuesday** — 09:46 PM

**Harley** : _Attached baby-yoda.jpg_

**Harley** : you up, parker?

**Harley** : i saw this picture and thought of you. ;)

**Peter** : I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment.

**Harley** : how can this face ever be an insult, bambi?

**Harley** : _baby-yoda(1).jpg_

**Peter** : Touche.

**Peter** : ...I thought you were still mad at me.

**Harley** : what gave you that idea?

**Peter** : You stopped talking to me…? You wouldn't answer any of my texts…?

**Harley** : it's called being grounded, bambi.

**Harley** : happens to those of us that aren’t born saints.

**Harley** : and my phone was taken. turns out you were spot on with that whole getting in trouble thing.

**Peter** : Shocking, I know.

**Harley** : lol. you’re so funny.

**Peter** : Your sarcasm is duly noted.

**Harley** : i’m back now, though. you can stop with the waterworks and the checking your phone every five minutes to see if i’ve replied.

**Harley** : melodramatic much, bambi?

**Peter** : I didn't know about your mom. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable.

**Harley** : it's fine, parker. don’t worry about it.

**Peter** : It's really not. I shouldn't have pried. Or assumed.

**Harley** : well, you're making me more uncomfortable with your apology, so quit it. 

**Harley** : It's not a big deal, so don't make it one.

**Peter** : Right. Sorry.

**Harley** : you're doing it again.

PETER is typing...

**Harley** : and I have a feeling you're about to do it again, so let me intervene now.

**Harley** : guess who just won last night's football game?

**Peter** : You're on the football team?

**Harley** : oh, god, no, don't be ridiculous.

**Peter** : And yet...?

**Harley** : turns out when a mascot starts sparkling like the Fourth of July, you tend to turn some heads.

**Peter** : I’d imagine.

**Peter** : You didn’t get in too much, right?

**Harley** : you’ve met me, right?

**Harley** : i'm always in trouble, Bambi .

**Harley** : On a scale from being screamed at for an hour to being sent to bed without dinner, I think i got off pretty easy with just being locked in my room.

**Peter** : Wait.

**Peter** : You were locked in your room?

**Harley** : yeah, my aunt’s kind of a bitch.

**Peter** : (☉｡☉)!

**Harley** : i can almost see you clutching your figurative pearls, Parker, and as funny as the mental image is, chill.

**Harley** : it’s not as dickensian as it sounds.

**Harley** : it’s fine. i’m fine.

**Peter** : Sorry, I just...I don't know. 

**Peter** : Aunt May is basically my best friend.

**Harley** : really? that's kind of sad.

**Peter** : Shut up. 

**Peter** : Anyway, what I meant to say is that I'm sorry you got in trouble like that.

**Harley** : ...it's not as bad as I'm making it sound. 

**Harley** : she's just...strict. You know how I am. 

**Harley** : she doesn’t really have a choice..

**Harley** : speaking of best friends, how's Ned? i miss the guy.

**Peter** : He bought a new lego set yesterday of the Enterprise. 

**Peter** : We're planning on working on it tomorrow.

**Harley** : you guys are such nerds.

**Harley** :...how many pieces?

**Peter** : :D

**Harley** : shut up, bambi.

**Harley** : work on your emojis.

***~***

Tony likes to think he takes threats pretty well. (And if that isn't a testimony to his fucked up life, he's not sure what is.) ****

After all, they were pretty common when he was growing up, and one tends to get used to such things after a while. As it turns out, his father had a lot of enemies—he supposes it came with the territory of being involved with SHIELD and all that jazz with the super-soldier program, which explains the massive security detail that used to follow him to school every day as a kid. ****

The threats vary, of course. Otherwise, he’d be bored, and where’s the fun in that? ****

He’s barely a month into being eighteen when he’s first accused of being the father of some woman’s child. Which. No. Tony used to be a womanizing douche, he’ll grant the masses that, but a womanizing douche that used  _ protection _ , thank you very much. ****

(The first time he voices _that_ particular thought out loud, Pepper gives him a long and searching look that makes him feel like he’s said something stupid.  ****

“What?” He asks. ****

She leaves with a shake of her head and soft laughter. ****

“What?” He calls after her.

He never gets a reply.) ****

It happens enough that Tony has their little song and dance memorized: “If you don’t want me to expose you to the press and drag you to filth then pay  _ insert specified amount here _ .”  ****

His father handled them at first (and as complicated as his feelings were towards the man he couldn’t deny the gleam of amusement he felt when his father's stare reduced the women to accepting little to nothing at all). In the years following the deaths of his parents, it became Obie’s job. No doubt he made the bastard’s job infinitely harder when it came to securing his image for the board and keeping him out of the tabloids than he had his father.  ****

Rhodey was a bit more accommodating in the sense that when he _was_ home from the base he pulled women and men from his bed with little more than a sigh of exasperation. (Best friend material, right there.)  ****

Pepper was a force unto herself. She cut down women in three-inch heels and smiles that were just as pointed. More than that, she single-handedly got him to stop. (He thinks he’ll always love her for that.)

When he wasn’t dealing with scorned women hoping to make a quick buck off his name, he was dealing with the social consequences that came with being the CEO of a weapons manufacturing company. The death threats he received were, in his opinion, kind of fair, if not overly hostile occasionally. Seeing as how Stark Industries no longer created weapons, Tony supposes those people got their way. ****

As an Avenger, and an important one at that (Tony liked to use words like _benefactor_ , _patron_ , _leader_. "Co-leader," a familiar voice would always correct, gently chiding, and Tony shoved it harshly away), threats were a part of the job description. Enemies, allies, and all those complicated in-betweens were prone to them the minute Tony fell out of line.  ****

He tends to do so a lot. ****

The point being, people don't get to where he is today without being threatened on a bi-weekly basis, and for the most part, he's accepted it.  ****

No, the problem comes when people threaten those that are _his_. Tony knows full well he's a possessive bastard but someone has to be when everything else in life is so easily taken. ****

So, when someone threatens someone he cares about: Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, and even the Avengers, once upon a time. ****

Peter. ****

That's when shit hits the fan. ****

Ross's threat rings in his ears long after the crack in the wall has been repaired, and he's spent his day more distracted than not, much to Pepper and the board's annoyance. The minute he gets the chance, he barricades himself in his lab, pulling up Peter's suit logs and scanning through them. ****

He doesn't even know what he's looking for—something Ross planted or did that makes him so sure he won't need Tony to reveal his identity. ****

Maybe he's having Spider-Man followed. Watched. ****

The thought sends a chill down his spine. ****

On the second holographic screen, he has open, Friday is actively hacking the Secretary of State's servers. Tony has yet to find anything incriminating, disappointingly. ****

He finds it very annoying. Of course, Ross refused to be your standard corrupt politician and keep documents of shady weapons deals and/or blackmail material. He was spiteful like that. ****

"Mr. Parker’s approaching the lab, Boss," Friday warns as he switches to the next log. ****

" _Okkaayy_..." He hurriedly skims the last reading and sighs in defeat. Nothing. "Close your screen but keep it running. If Ross didn't so much as pay for his pizza delivery, I want to know." ****

"Yes, Boss." ****

He whirls around in his chair just as the glass doors slide open, admitting his favorite ("Only," Pepper chides) intern. "Peter! What’s up, kid? You get Harley talking to you again?" ****

Something complicated flickers across Peter's face, a mess of emotions too quick for Tony to decipher before settling on a small smile. "Yeah. We're good. Well. As good as we ever are." ****

"I know better than to hope for more.” He hopes he doesn’t look as guilty as he feels, desperately trying to exude casualness. “Is he keeping out of trouble?" ****

"Not exactly?" Peter tilts his head, his voice rising to the lilting edge of a question. "He's grounded at the moment." ****

He raises an eyebrow. "What for?" ****

"Stuffing fireworks inside his school's mascot." ****

Tony tries and fails to hold back a smirk. Of course. "It's only been three weeks, and I already miss him. It's like Stockholm Syndrome." ****

Peter snorts and peers past him. "Are those my suit logs?"  ****

Tony glances over his shoulder. ****

"Yes." He says, forcing his expression to remain neutral. ****

"Something wrong?" Peter comes closer and narrows his eyes. “Are those...security scans?”

"No." Tony hesitates then continues. "Just some standard maintenance. Now, go on, get to work. Chop chop." He shoos him away for good measure. ****

Bless his trusting, little heart, Pete simply rolls his eyes but does as he says, settling down at his work table. ****

"And do your homework before you start with the web fluid. Your aunt's starting to get on to me about that." Tony tacks on, spinning back around. ****

" _Ugh_." He groans. ****

"That's what I said. But she's the boss." ****

An hour into the comforting sounds of clinking beakers and no update from Friday, Tony looks at the station Peter has set himself up at. ****

"Hey, Peter?" Casual. Easy-going. Not at all suspicious in any way, shape, or form. ****

"Yeah, Mr. Stark?" The kid doesn't even look from his notebook. ****

"Have you noticed anything... _weird_ when you go out lately?" ****

"Weird? Like what?" ****

"I don't know. Weirdness. Anything setting your spider senses ablaze?" Great job, Stark. Way to keep it casual. ****

Peter looks up then, bemusement was written across his face. "No, I can't say I have. No weirder than what I'm used to, at least." ****

Tony nods. "Just checking." ****

If Ross wasn't having Peter followed, what _did_ he have in his back pocket? ****

With his stained lab apron, StarkTech goggles pushed back in his curls, and a notebook filled with equations that would stump Harvard graduates, Peter looks at home in the lab. A long shot from the boy who used to vibrate with excitement whenever Tony breathed in his direction. ****

And Ross wants to take that away from him. Leave him vulnerable to the criminals who would hurt him and use– _Wait a minute_. ****

"Peter," he begins slowly, an inkling of a suspicion slowly knitting itself together in his head. "Who else knows about your identity?" ****

"Um..." ****

"Humor me." ****

Peter looks confused but begins listing off. "Um, May, Ned, MJ, though I didn't tell her, she figured it out. Uh, Pepper, Happy, I think Rhodey's starting to get suspicious after that time I accidentally broke the sink–" ****

Tony shakes his head, cutting him off. "No, someone else who knows but shouldn't. Someone _I_ wouldn't know about." ****

Peter looks distant for a moment before fear clouds his face, and Tony feels his own heart sink a little. ****

"Um, there may be one person." ****

Fuck. "Who?" ****

"Adrian Toomes.” Peter’s voice seems to get smaller when he elaborates, “Vulture." ****

Of _fucking_ course. ****

"Vulture," Tony repeats just in case his hearing has decided to very conveniently go out at this very moment. "And you're telling me this now?! _Almost a year later?!_ " ****

"It wasn't a pressing issue. He's not exactly a _threat_ anymore!" Peter defends, crossing his arms. ****

"I'm sorry, the same man who stripped and repurposed alien technology _isn't_ a threat? The same man who cut a steamer in half? The same man who dropped a _building_ on you?" ****

"Well, when you put it like that..." Peter squirms in his seat, face mulish. "You make it sound so bad." ****

"Because it is. Is there any other way for it to sound!?" Tony sighs, rubbing the heel of his hands into his eyes. When he pulls them away, Peter looks less defensive and just guilty. He softens his voice. "Kid, you still have nightmares about what happened." ****

Two red spots appear on Peter's cheeks. " _How_...?" ****

"Your hot aunt likes to keep me in the loop." ****

"Gross," Peter's face falls a moment later, embarrassment clouding his features which is the last thing Tony wants him to feel. "I'm fine. May shouldn't have told you that." ****

"I'm happy she did. Hell, I still have nightmares." Tony adds the last part quietly. Imagining Peter trapped under concrete and being slowly crushed to death was enough to trigger his own PTSD. "I know. Um. We haven’t _talked_ much about what happened, but. That is if you ever _want_ to tal–" ****

"No," Peter interrupts, looking down at his notebook like it would save him the conversation. Tony can’t even blame him, really. His attempt at comfort was pitiful. "Am I in trouble? For the Toomes thing?" ****

_Avoidance_ , May had said. Never wants to talk about what happened. Not the healthiest strategy to deal with trauma, but Tony would be a hypocrite to call him out on it. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead, squeezing his eyes shut. ****

"No, Peter. No, you are not. I'll deal with it." ****

Peter's head shoots up, and he looks even more worried, and Tony can't help but scoff. ****

"Don't give me that look. I'm not going to kill him or anything. We’re just gonna talk. Nothing to worry about." ****

"Oh." Peter releases a shaky laugh. "Ok." ****

Tony rolls his eyes. "Get back to work, kid." ****

He’s barely turned around when Peter begins, “Could you, um, if you’re not too busy, help with this problem? I just…” His voice trails off in uncertainty, but Tony’s already out of his chair and drawing closer to his side. ****

“Show me.”

***~***

**Wednesday** — 03:16 PM

  
  


**Peter** : I don't get it.

**Harley** : what's not to get? 

**Harley** : you take the derivative of the equation to find x.

**Peter** : No, not that.

**Peter** : What I don't get is how you're smarter than most of the kids at Midtown and yet you're still learning the difference between circles and spheres.

**Harley** : most of the kids. including you?

**Peter** : I will neither confirm nor deny that.

**Peter** : And that's beside the point. Why aren't you in a gifted program or something?

**Harley** : Would you believe that it was cut to fund the football team?

**Peter** : The same team you described as having the collective IQ of a pig.

**Peter** : Rude, by the way.

**Harley** : towards pigs maybe.

**Harley** : they’re actually very intelligent creatures.

**Harley** : just so we’re clear i’m still talking about the pigs.

**Peter** : Is it stupid that I didn't think schools did that in real life?

**Harley** : i think everything you say sounds stupid.

**Harley** : sorry. habit.

**Harley** : what do you mean?

**Peter** : You know: the whole getting rid of art and STEM programs to fund sports.

**Peter** : I think Midtown has the opposite problem.

**Harley** : i'd imagine.

**Harley** : seeing as how the gym coach moonlights as the detention monitor.

**Peter** : Are there any other schools you could go to?

**Harley** : none in my district.

**Peter** : What about your sister?

**Harley** : what about her?

**Peter** : She goes to Graystone, right? Tony mentioned it once.

**Harley** : while I am curious to know the conversation which brought that subject up…

**Peter** : Um…

**Harley** : let’s put a pin in it for now.

**Peter:** Anyway...

**Peter** : Greystone's pretty prestigious.

**Peter** : And I know for a fact you’re smart enough to get in...

  
  


**Harley** :...it’s complicated.

**Peter** : How so?

**Harley** : it just is.

**Peter** : Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.

**Harley** : no, it's just…

**Harley** : there's this one-child policy thing there. 

**Harley** : only one scholarship per household.

**Peter** : And they offered it to Abbie?

**Harley** :...kind of.

**Peter** : Kind of?

**Harley** : we were both asked to take the test.

**Peter** : Yeah?

**Harley** : but then some things happened that led them to doubt the quality of my character and they rescinded their offer.

**Peter** :...

**Harley** : also I totally bombed their admissions test.

**Peter** : You? Bombed their test? That sounds...

**Harley** : hey, things happen.

**Peter** : Did you set something on fire?

**Harley** : no, I did not set anything on fire.

**Harley** : contrary to several unproven accusations, i’m not an arsonist.

**Peter** : Just checking.

**Harley** : anyway, my scholarship was pulled and offered to Abbie instead.

**Peter** : (・o・)

**Harley** : which I'm happy about. she deserves better.

**Peter** : A better school?

**Harley** : Among other things.

**Harley** : Parker, home is kind of...messy for me.

**Harley** : and not in the fun Tony Stark drinking coffee at midnight and falling asleep watching Star Wars kind of messy 

**Harley** : but the not...good kind.

**Harley** : mom is in and out of rehab.

**Harley** : and when I’m not working, i’m usually in detention.

**Harley** : Abbie deserves to have friends who hang out with her, teachers who care, and an aunt who doesn’t forget to put food on the table or locks the fridge. 

**Peter** : Your aunt...does all that?

**Harley** : I...no. I’m being dramatic.

**Peter** :...

**Harley** : i'm joking, Parker. chill.

**Peter** : Oh.

**Peter** : lol.

**Harley** : i hope you can feel me rolling my eyes.

**Harley** : now show me your next question.

**Harley** : i wanna see if I can do it without a calculator.

  
**Peter** : You're on.

***~*** ****

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Happy holds the helicopter door open as Tony steps out, surveying the raging, gray sea around them. Ocean spray stings his face from when the Raft was brought up above the waves. 

The wind whips through his hair as he slides his glasses on. "When have I ever had a bad idea?"

Happy's ensuing snort is probably more than a little deserved.

“You know, I still haven’t made up my mind about firing you or not.” He warns, and he strides in like he owns the place. 

Somehow, the interior of the Raft is more unnerving than Tony remembers, all sterile, white walls and floors with a distinct antiseptic smell to it all. As he's led to where the more common criminals are kept, he peers over the railing of the elevated walkway to take note of the see-through cells hosting the more interesting variety of evil.

Enhanced individuals. Metahumans.

For a brief moment, he thinks he sees Wanda, young and scared with her arms in a straitjacket. He blinks, and Peter replaces her. Tony forcibly shoves the images away and continues down the walkway.

"Fifteen minutes, sir." The guard reminds him as he unlocks cell number 19.

"That’s all I need."

He steps in and closes the door behind him, leaving Happy to do his job and keep the warden distracted from the peculiarity of Tony Stark visiting the Raft without Ross.

"Who–?" A gravelly voice begins, drawing Tony's gaze to the man inhabiting the room.

He'd seen him briefly on TV when he was dealing with the aftermath of the heist, more concerned with damage control and Peter's broken ribs to actually meet the guy, but now that they’re face-to-face, he's kind of disappointed.

Adrian Toomes looks nothing like Tony is expecting, which is odd because even Tony isn't quite sure what he'd been expecting.

No. That’s not true.

He was expecting a monster. Someone capable of selling dangerous alien tech to dangerous criminals. Capable of maneuvering military-grade tech with ease. Capable of stealing a StarkJet.

Someone capable of hurting Peter.

But the man in front of him just seems...deflated. Tired and world-weary with a scruffy, gray beard that makes Tony itch just looking at it. Though he holds a book in one hand— _Things Fall Apart_ , a good read—his other hand is preoccupied with turning the wedding around his finger with all the frantic energy of a nervous tick.

Tony feels sorry for him and he hates that; all he wants to do is get his answers and leave before Ross realizes he's caught on to his plans.

"Stark." Even his voice is gray somehow.

"Toomes. Nice place you got here. Personally, I’m loving the decor." He nods to the potted plant near his bed. The only object in this room aside from a picture frame that’s been turned down. "Livens the place up, huh?"

"What are you doing here?" Toomes asks, and Tony ignores him.

"How's the book?" He points at the cover. "Gotta love him, right?. It might be the only book I've read since college."

"It's...fine." Toomes looks wary, the line of his shoulders drawn tight, and Tony inexplicably finds himself suddenly tiring of the small talk. Just being around the man is draining.

"Fine. Let me cut to the chase." He leans back against the door and crosses his arms. "You know who Spider-Man is. Yes or no."

Toomes' eyes dart to the camera in the corner of his cell, and Tony rolls his eyes. "Off the second I walked in. Tech mogul, here. Give me some credit."

Toomes hesitates long enough for him to get his answer even before he’s replying, "Yes."

"Yep. That’s what I thought. I don’t know why I–." He exhales hard, takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. Whispers, " _Damn it, Peter_."

"Why?"

Tony slides his glasses back on and steadies himself. No weakness now. "In a few days or so, I suspect a colleague of mine will visit and ask for his identity." For some reason, his gaze catches on the picture frame again. It really shouldn’t be in here. Too many potential uses for a criminal, beaten or not, and yet... 

He gestures at it, "Maybe he already has. May I?"

He doesn't wait for his reply as he takes the frame and turns it over in his hands. In it, there’s a woman with smooth brown skin and dark hair with a young girl who looks around Peter’s age, but older. The picture looks recently taken. There's still a price sticker on the velvet back. Ross got to him first then. "What did he promise you?"

In the quiet of the room, he hears Toomes' dry swallow. "What makes you think he did?"

Tony scoffs. "Oh, he did. I'm waiting."

A beat. "He said he could get me out of here."

_Bingo_.

"Well, he's lying to you. Don't get too down on yourself, it's part of the job description." Tony hands him the picture frame, and Toomes takes it from him. He perches on the bedside table. "You wanna know how this plays out, Toomes? You tell him the truth, Ross uses that information to do who knows what to Peter, and you go back to your family. Allegedly. In reality, Ross gets rid of you because you’re a civilian who knows classified information. You’re relocated to some remote part of the world without any hope of ever getting back into the States"

Another dry swallow.

“Or he has you killed,” Tony tacks on for good measure. “That’s also very much a possibility.”

Another beat.

"I told him to give me a couple of days before I made my decisions," Toomes says into the ensuing silence.

“How about I do you one better?” Tony crosses his legs at the ankles. “I shorten your sentence and get you some weekly visits from your beautiful wife and daughter. Lauren, right?" He snaps his fingers as the name suddenly comes. "No, _Liz_. Bright girl. Peter couldn't shut up about her in Happy’s voicemails."

Toomes visibly hesitates. "I'd still be in here?"

"Better than being dead." Tony deadpans.

He frowns.

"Think about it." He pushes off the table and turns to leave.

"Wait.” Tony stills, though a part of him just wants to leave. He hears Toomes exhale shakily.“Why–why tell me the truth? Why help me at all after what I–? Why are you here?"

"Because Peter says I'm not allowed to kill you.” Honesty’s the best policy, right? “Lucky for you or I might've done what Ross was planning to." 

"I was _desperate_ ," Toomes says, his voice cracking, and Tony closes his eyes. He understands desperation—more than Toomes or anyone might think.

Then he sees Peter, crushed underneath tones of concrete with no one to help him. He hears the thinly veiled worry in May’s voice when she talks about the nightmares that come and go without warning and no end to them. He thinks of his own dreams, Peter crying for him to save him and still being powerless to do so.

The well of pity in his heart dries up a little further, the edges hardening. 

"Yeah, well, so was Peter when you tried to kill him, funny that. Think about what I've said." He leaves on that note, the metal door slamming shut behind him.

***~***

**Thursday** — 05:16 PM   


**Harley** : 1976.Cadillac.jpg

**Peter** : What's this?

**Harley** : this, my good sir, is the future Mrs. Harley James Keener

**Peter** :...

**Peter** : Ok, but it's a car.

**Harley** : just a car? is the quinjet just a plane? is the empire state building just a skyscraper?

**Peter** : I think you're a little too into this...

**Harley** : no. i think not.

**Peter** : Where’d you get it?

**Harley** : That job I was talking to you about?

**Harley** : I work at the junkyard afterschool.

**Peter** : Woah. That’s so cool!

**Harley** : ...I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.

**Peter** : I’m not. Why would I?

**Harley** : people have been known to make...jokes at school.

**Harley** : you know. before i remind them that they shouldn’t anger the kid with the screwdriver.

**Peter** : Well, considering I used to dumpster dive for computer parts, I wouldn’t exactly have a leg to stand on.

**Harley** : huh. really?

**Peter** : I had a lot of free time in the evenings.

**Peter** : I wasn’t paid for it though. How’d you get the job?

**Harley** : my aunt’s boyfriend is friends with the owner.

**Harley** : it’s the only good thing about him, honestly.

**Peter** : What do you do?

**Harley** : not much.

**Harley** : legally, i’m not allowed to do like half of the things the other guys do, so I usually just work on ths beauty and take out the trash and stuff.

**Peter** : I still can’t believe you fixed it up. I knew you were good with cars, but...

**Peter** : I’m more software than hardware.

**Harley** : ha. it shows.

**Harley** : no offense, Parker, but you're the definition of a future silicon valley nerd.

**Peter** : Hey!

**Harley** : what? It's true. 

**Harley** : you're all sweater vests, messy hair, and white converse. 

**Harley** : all you're missing are a pair of glasses to complete the look.

**Peter** :...

**Harley** : wait…

**Harley** : wait, did you used to wear glasses?!

**Peter** :...

**Harley** : Bambi.

**Harley** : Parker.

**Peter** :...Maybe.

**Peter** : But I don't need them anymore.

**Harley** : LOL.

**Peter** : We were talking about you, right?

**Harley** : oh my gosh, i can totally see it.

**Peter** : So what are your hours?

**Harley** : goodness, this feels like a job interview.

**Harley** : if i’m not serving detention time, straight after school.

**Harley** : i’m usually done by like eight.

**Harley** : later if my aunt’s boyfriend is staying the night because I can barely deal with the guy sober and it’s a chore dealing with him drunk.

**Harley** : he’s much nicer to be around when he’s passed out.

**Peter** : ...You don’t seem to like him very much.

**Harley** : if you’re asking if we get along…

**Harley** : then the answer is no.

**Peter** : Is he...strict like your aunt?

**Harley** : ha. that’s one word for it.

**Peter:** Is he, like, the super grumpy version of happy?

**Harley:** i wish.

**Harley** : he just doesn’t agree with the way i act and reacts accordingly.

**Harley** : my aunt’s words.

**Peter** : The way you...act?

**Harley** : yeah, you know.

**Harley** : loud, smartass, show-off, delinquent

**Harley** : that’s my aunt’s personal favorite

**Harley** : this really shouldn’t be news to you.

  
  


**Peter** : No, I guess not, but that doesn’t mean…

**Peter** : I don’t think your aunt should go along with it.

**Peter** : You're family. Why would she choose him over you?

**Harley** :...

**Peter** : Sorry, I didn't mean…

**Peter** : Forget I said that.

**Harley** : no, it's just...you are very naive, Bambi. i forget sometimes.

**Peter** : How...?

**Harley** : just because you're family doesn't mean you're their first choice. 

**Harley** : you're not obligated to choose them.

**Peter** : You should be.

**Harley** : not in my experience.

PETER is typing...

**Harley** : can we talk about something else, please?

**Peter** : Sure...

***~***

"Ok. Talk to me. What's up?" ****

Rhodey comes out of nowhere, startling Tony from his work and nearly giving him a heart attack. It's a testimony to how distracted he must be if Rhodey's managed to sneak up on him with his metal braces—effortless they move, they lend a certain heaviness to Rhodey's steps that Tony's grown accustomed to and usually he can tell when he’s coming. ****

"What do you mean? Nothing's up. The _sky’s_ up, that's what." He deflects, and Rhodey levels him a deeply unimpressed look before leaning over the couch. ****

"You've been running yourself ragged lately. I've noticed. Pepper's noticed. Happy, too.” ****

Tony snorts, swiping a hand across his StarkPad and sending a project back to R&D. "That's because you guys are all overprotective, mother-hen stalkers. Honestly, I should file a restraining order against all of you. Fifteen meters apart at any given time and permission given to DUM-E to attack the second my personal bubble is breached." ****

Rhodey ignores him because they're best friends for a reason. "Hell, I think your _intern_ is starting to notice, too. He asked me if something was wrong when I ran into him outside." ****

"Peter finally managed to string a coherent sentence around you?” Tony arches an eyebrow in disbelief, “Jesus, something must be wrong." ****

Rhodey smirks a little. "Coherent might be a stretch. He stuttered a little and turned red enough to impersonate a tomato, but the intent was clear. You wanna tell me what's going on?" ****

Tony can only sigh. Getting Rhodey involved feels like cheating somehow. Especially when his hands would probably be just as tied, if not more, as Tony’s. ****

"Does it have anything to do with this?" Rhodey holds out a manilla folder that Tony’s just now realizing was in his hands. "I found it outside on your porch. I don't think it's dangerous but we should probably double-check–" ****

Tony rips it open. ****

"–or we can open it." Rhodey sighs, crossing his arms. "Let's just do that." ****

Tony pulls out a single sheet of paper, ice trickling down his spine as his eyes slowly but surely piece together what he's looking at: a picture of Spider-Man. Grainy and nearly impossible to make out but him. Peter. ****

He turns the page over. Typed out in small print reads a threat as clear as day:  ****

_ Twenty-Four Hours Left. _ ****

"Damn it." He swears. ****

"You wanna tell me what’s going on now?" ****

Tony runs his hands through his hair. "Ross wants Spider-Man in exchange for changes in the Accords." ****

“What?” Rhodey blinks in surprise, straightening up. "Why?" ****

"Hell, if I know," He shakes his head. "But I can't, Rhodes. It's not my secret to give and who knows what Ross has planned." ****

"But?" Rhodey prompts. "There's a but in there somewhere." ****

"But," Tony acquiesces, finally giving voice to the doubts that’ve been rolling in his head since Ross offered his ultimatum, "This could be my only chance to change things. We've been at a stalemate for forever now. Spider-Man's identity could be what we need to finally tip the scales in our favor." ****

Rhodey understands immediately. "The Accords." ****

"At this point, I’d be settled with getting the others pardoned from being _frickin_ ' war criminals." At Rhodey's wary look he quickly amends. "I'm not saying we live as we used to as a big happy family in the tower—that thing's not my problem anymore—but maybe they can stop hiding out like common criminals. Whether Ross likes it or not—whether _I_ like it or not—we’re going to need them one day, and _honestly?_ I don’t trust that outdated dinosaur Rogers gave me as far as I can throw it. It'd be just my luck for it to lose service in the middle of a fight or something. Where does one even _get_ a flip phone these days?" ****

"I think," Rhodey begins slowly, thoughtfully. "That if it were that simple, you'd have already given Spider-Man's identity up on a silver platter." ****

"When is it ever?" Tony grumbles, slouching in his chair. ****

"There'll be time to deal with the Avengers. The world is always going to need heroes, but what's happening with Spider-Man is happening now. Whoever he is, he trusts you enough to draw Ross' suspicion. He's relying on you to keep him safe. Think about that. Have you told him?” ****

“No.” At Rhodey’s disapproving look Tony hurries to defend himself. “Knowing him he’d tell me to tell Ross or do it himself. I can’t–I can’t let him do that.” ****

Rhodey raises an eyebrow at the break in his voice, but thankfully glosses over it, “It’s not exactly your choice to make.” ****

“It is for now.” Tony asserts firmly, hoping the subject would be finally dropped. “Any more advice, oh, sage Honey Bear? Particularly about Ross?” ****

"You're Tony Stank." Ross winks and pats his shoulder as he stands up. "I'm sure you'll figure something out." ****

Tony groans and slouches until he’s nearly on the ground. "I hate you, you know. No, truly. You're the worst. Worse than Happy." ****

Rhodey's laugh trails him out of the living room, and Tony stares at the picture on his coffee table for one long moment. ****

"Friday?" ****

"Yes, Boss?" ****

"Schedule a meeting with Ross. Tell him we have to talk."

***~***

**Friday** — 04:52 PM

**Harley** : potato_gun_blueprint.jpg

**Harley** : What do you think?

**Peter** : Is this the famed potato gun?

**Harley** : The one and only. Version 3.2.

**Peter** : What happened to the other versions?

**Harley** : A lot of things. 

**Harley** : They blew up, caught fire, shorted out, got smashed to pieces by my aunt’s bf, etc, etc.

**Peter** : Where does the potato part of this come in?

**Harley** : that’s the best part: it doesn't.

**Peter** : (・o・)

**Harley** : of course, im keeping the name for purely sentimental reasons. 

**Harley** : Let's be for real here, Parker.

**Harley** : How much damage is a potato really going to do to someone?

**Peter** : I thought you did this for fun. Not...damage.

**Harley** : can't it be both?

**Harley** : anyway, I replaced the potato chamber with an electrical grid that can stabilize plasma beams for short bursts of time. 

**Harley** : pretty cool, right?

**Peter** : Yeah, I guess.

**Harley** : You guess?

**Harley** : no this is the part where you shower me in praise, remember?

**Peter** : Harley, these are weapons.

**Harley** : yessss???

**Harley** : your point being…?

**Peter** : Aside from the fact that these are borderline military-grade weapons? 

**Peter** : I guess I don't have one, then.

**Harley** : you should be a comedian, parker.

**Harley** : and you’re making a big deal out of nothing. 

**Harley** : Tony builds stuff like this all the time and i’m like 78% sure im just as smart as him.

  
  


**Peter** : Barring the fact that he’s an inventor with a million degrees

**Peter** : These things seem dangerous. What if you get hurt?

**Harley** : your concern is noted and appreciated, Bambi

**Peter** : You’re not taking this seriously, are you?

**Harley** : and here i thought i was hiding it so well ;)

**Peter** : Does Tony know?

**Harley** :...

**Harley** : No.

**Peter** : Maybe you should tell him?

**Harley** : Maybe I should not.

**Harley** : Can't a kid just protect himself?

**Harley** : It's a dog eat dog world out there. And at my core, parker, i’m just a very loud chihuahua. 

**Peter** : That’s...okay… but Harley, these are weapons.

**Peter** : Who's going to hurt you so bad you need a plasma gun?

**Harley** : You'd be surprised.

**Peter** : What?

**Harley** : Nothing.

**Peter** :...I really think you should talk to Mr. Stark about this.

**Harley** : No.

**Peter** : Harley.

**Peter** : I’m sure he’d understand.

**Harley** : random question time

**Harley** : why do you talk to me?

**Peter** : What?

**Harley** : is it because of Tony?

**Harley** : no, i’m sorry. Mr. Sark?

**Harley** : is he adding checking up on Harley to your intern duties?

**Peter** : What, no!

**Peter** : I like talking to you. I’m not reporting to Mr. Stark or anything.

**Harley** : then why are you pushing this so hard?

**Harley** : can’t we drop it?

**Peter** : Aren’t I allowed to be concerned?

**Harley** : not when everything’s fine.

**Peter** : Fine?

**Peter** : Your aunt sounds borderline neglectful. 

**Peter** : Her boyfriend makes you feel so unsafe you avoid your house when he’s there.

**Peter** : Does that really sound fine to you, Harley?

**Harley** : You don’t know me.

**Harley** : You don’t know anything about me.

**Peter** : But I could if you let me.

**Peter** : We’re friends, right? Or close to becoming some?

**Harley** : ...i guess.

**Peter** : So talk to me

**Harley** : i...don’t know

**Peter** : Mr. Stark can help.

**Harley** : Tony?

**Harley** : you’d...tell Tony.

**Peter** : ...If you were in trouble, yeah.

**Harley** : God, i’m such an idiot.

**Peter** : Wait, what?

**Harley** : It all comes back to him doesn’t?

**Harley** : So you can play hero with iron man?

**Peter** : That’s not what’s happening here.

**Peter** : Friends, remember?

**Harley** : news flash, parker

**Harley** : i don’t have friends

**Harley** : i don’t need them

**Harley** : and i don’t need you.   


HARLEY is offline at 05:10 PM

**Peter** : Harley?

**Peter** : Harley, c’mon. 

**Peter** : I’m sorry.

***~***

Frankly, it's a bit disconcerting having Ross in Tony's vicinity after taking such pains to avoid him, be it by scheduling product debuts in other countries, feigning sickness, or just leaving him on hold for eight hours.

So, it's definitely weird to have him at the mansion in the flesh, moving around his workshop, touching things that grab his attention, and letting his eyes linger on floating diagrams for a bit too long to be entirely innocent.

He brings backup because of course, he does. (He couldn’t have risked _not_ seeming like an asshole who holds all the cards). Calm, neatly dressed, eminently controlled backup who subtly block all the entrances and exits to and from the workshop to ensure that Tony is completely and utterly alone.

Only when Ross gets too close to one of the schematics—an upgrade for a shoulder blaster, or something of the like—it flickers off immediately, as well as all the others. Anything that had been on display is effectively moved out of sight, startling everyone in the room.

Well, not _entirely_ alone.

"Apologies, Secretary Ross, but you do not have the required security clearance to view Boss's inventions," Friday announces from the ceiling, but she sounds more smug than sincere. Tony smirks at Ross's obvious disgruntlement and the way his backup eyes the room warily like they’re now realizing in whose home they’re in. The mansion doesn’t have the same prestige and threatening figure as the tower, but with Friday installed it is just as capable.

"Right, then," The Secretary clears his throat, composing himself, and turns to Tony. "I assume you've called me here because you've come to your senses?"

"Quite the opposite, actually." Tony keeps his tone light, rocking back of the balls of his feet. "I'm here to tell you no."

"No?" He raises a bushy white eyebrow.

"Yes," Tony nods then immediately shakes his head. "I mean, _no_. No, I am not giving you what you want."

Ross exhales an aggravated sigh, running a hand down his face and rubbing his mustache. "Stark, I need you to _work_ with me here–"

"And if I don't?" Tony asks and Ross steps closer, a steely light entering his eyes.

"Don't do this." He orders quietly.

But Tony refuses to back down. Not now. Not when Peter’s life is on the line. "Here's what's going to happen, Ross. You are going to step away from this—from Spider-Man. From here on out, consider him a property of Stark Industries—Do. Not. Touch."

"Or what?" The secretary snarls. 

Tony sets his shoulders and moves back, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Or I do something that I regret."

Ross's face twitches. Like he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or gape in horror. "Are you _threatening_ me?"

"You and I both know that the only reason the Accords went as far as they did was because of _me_. _My_ name and _my_ influence." Tony leans close, dropping his voice to a growl. "Do _not_ test me on this. You will not like the results."

A moment of silence and something like understanding dawns on Ross' face, his expression breaking open with surprise. "You–you care about him."

Something unpleasant breaks through his veneer of calm. He struggles to keep his face blank. "I care about business."

"No, this is more than that." An ugly smile settles on paper-thin lips as Ross moves away. "Be careful, Stark. You're showing your hand."

He turns around and starts for the door. “We’re done here.”

"You haven't promised me," Tony reminds him. “Do I have your word, Secretary?”

Ross freezes then peers over his shoulder, dark blue eyes unreadable. "I promise to see what I can do."

He waits until Friday informs him that Ross has left the mansion before sagging heavily against a work table, the weight on his shoulders lessening even as his lungs constrict. It's a lie, obviously. Most definitely. But that means there's time to stop it, whatever _it_ is, from happening. Enough time to keep Peter safe.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony doesn't know how long he stands there, trying to get his breathing under control and keep his legs from collapsing underneath him. It must have been some time because when he looks up Peter is walking in, tucking his phone into his back pocket as he shifts the pizza book in his hand from one to the other.

His intern looks worried. "Friday called me. She said you’d like some company. Are you ok?"

Tony silently thanks his AI as he gestures Peter forward, moving to meet him halfway. Seemingly bemused, Peter listens, setting the pizza down on the metal table next to them. Once he's there, Tony takes his face in his hands and tries to calm his racing heart.

"Um...Mr. Stark?" He asks through squished lips.

"You'd tell me if something happened, right?"

Peter attempts to raise an eyebrow. "Like, what?"

"Anything. If you were in danger or feeling threatened. Right?"

"Of course." Peter pulls away and frowns. "Mr. Stark, is something wrong?"

"Nah, kid." Tony exhales slowly and closes his eyes, the darkness and worry in him receding like waves on a beach. It’d be back. But for now, he was okay. "You?"

“I got into an argument with Harley. Again.” Peter looks embarrassed, avoiding Tony’s gaze as he tugs his jacket sleeves down. “Sorry, I know you wanted us to get along better.”

Tony can’t help but smile a little. Peter Parker’s problems are always so...typical. Normal. It’s a breath of fresh air after all he's dealt with concerning Spider-Man.

“It’s fine, Peter.” He opens the pizza box, the smell of freshly melted cheese and tomato sauce making his mouth water. He didn’t realize how hungry he was. “Honestly, I kind of expected it.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Personality-wise, the two of you are gasoline and water.” Tony takes a bite and nearly burns his tongue. “Ow–! Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you guys to go frolicking through the woods after three weeks of sporadic texting.”

“You...weren’t?” 

“Harley has...let’s say he has trouble trusting people. You, on the other hand, you trust easily.” He shrugs. “Come on to Harley too strong, and he’ll startle.”

“That would’ve been helpful to know,” Peter mumbles under his breath as he grabbed a third slice. 

“Wait, what was the argument about?” Tony asked, suddenly curious.

Complicated emotions war across Peter’s face before he shakes his head. Tony feels like he’s being left out of something, and he’s not sure how to take it. “Nothing. Something stupid." 

Briefly, Tony wonders if he should press the issue. Maybe he needs to call up Harley himself. Hearing Peter laugh, though, as he retells some story from lunch, his arm nearly taking the pizza box completely off the table, gives him pause. He wants to enjoy this. For the first time this week, Tony realizes he feels good.

***~***

**Sunday** — 09:16 AM   


**Peter** : Hey, are you there?

**Peter** : I wanted to say sorry.   


11:06 AM   


**Peter** : I didn’t mean to pry but...

**Peter** : Nevermind. Sorry.   


1:38 PM   


**Peter** : I just...Are you sure you're okay?

**Monday** — 05:46 PM   
  


**Peter** : Harley, I'm getting worried.

**Peter** : I’m probably being overdramatic, huh?

**Peter** : Just ignore these if you’re reading them.

**Peter** : Sorry again.

**Tuesday** — 7:27 PM

**Peter** : Can you just text me please? Even if it’s just to insult me?

**Peter** : C’mon I know you want to tell me off some more.

**Peter** : Please?   
  


**Wednesday** — 7:27 PM

  
**Peter** : Harley?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: In my first version of this chapter, Harley came off really aggressive and kind of petty and I wanted to change that.  
> I have this headcanon that despite being all sarcastic and snarky, Harley doesn't have experience with genuine friendship, so he's thrown back whenever someone approaches him that way. He's an awkward bean in his own way, and I love finding ways to show that through his words and actions.
> 
> Just a little look into my creative process <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Nice comments and kudos are much appreciated!!


End file.
